Time Changes Everything
by fictionalcandie
Summary: First, he thought he'd just go and kill Peter. Then, he had a better idea... steal a timeturner, and use it to save his friends. Now, thanks to Sirius, Harry's life will never be quite the same again. [AU.]
1. Chapter Zero

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter belongs to JKR. (I almost just wrote "owns JKR"... Yeowch, my brain must be dead.) No copyright infringement is intended.

**Author's Notes:** This is a story I started awhile back, when I had spent just a little too much time thinking about certain events in HP canon. I actually rather like it, even. Please don't forget to review, I would appreciate it. I like reviews, hee.

**o.o.o.o**

**1 November, 1981**

**1:26 AM**

Twenty-two year old Sirius Black clutched his wand in one hand and a time-turner in the other. There were still tears streaming from his eyes, and he was bleeding in several places, but he was about to make it all better. The time turner was his key to happiness -- he'd broken into the Ministry to get it. No doubt they'd be after him already, since they'd been after him even before he'd stolen the time-turner.

Four hours ago, though, they hadn't had any reason to be after him.

"Oh, Lily," he gasped, the pain still so fresh it burned his chest. He was afraid if he held the time-turner any more tightly, he'd break it. "Oh, _James_."

For a very brief period after he'd discovered Peter's betrayal, he'd considered going after the little rat. He'd gladly kill the son of a bitch for what he done. But then it had occurred to him that killing a traitor wouldn't bring Lily and James back. He'd thought nothing would bring them back; then he'd remembered there was such a thing as a time-turner. If he had a time turner, _he _could bring them back.

He knew so much suddenly, that everyone before had been desperate to know. He could do so much now that he couldn't do before. Everyone he could save had flashed before his eyes, and he'd made up his mind.

It was only a few hours that he was getting rid of, but they were such _important_ hours. He couldn't do it lightly, if he did what he wanted to. He had to do it, though.

He'd risk anything to have the Potters back.

He was in front of their house -- or rather, he was in front of the smoldering ruin that had _been_ their house. It was empty, they were dead, Harry was gone, and he was a hunted man. For now. But not _then_.

He was going to change everything.

Mind fixed firmly on his objective, Sirius spun the tiny hourglass five, six, seven times. The world blurred around him and as he rushed back in time, he felt his injuries overtake him and he unwillingly lost consciousness.

°

**31 October, 1981**

**7:14 PM**

Sirius awoke on a couch somewhere, his head pounding. He sat up quickly, though his vision blurred, and looked around. His heart leapt into his throat and he almost started crying with happiness when he saw where he was.

Lily and James's living room.

The clock on the mantelpiece told him that he had over two hours before the attack. Laughing voices could be heard coming from the kitchen, worry faintly detectable in their undertones. Harry was sitting in a playpen a little way away, staring curiously at his godfather.

"Hiya, lad," murmured Sirius, swinging his legs off the couch and wincing at the pain in the muscles he'd overused just a few short hours ago -- but still several hours into this future. He stood up immediately. His head swam.

He swore, and Harry grinned. Sirius grinned back, asking, "Is this what you feel like when _you _try and walk?"

The voices in the other room quieted.

"Sirius?" called James, anxiety suddenly obvious as he spoke. He appeared in the doorway, frowning worriedly. If he hadn't been determined to have twenty more years with them, Sirius was sure he would have broken down at the sight of that familiar face. It seemed to him that he'd seen it dead just a few hours ago... but that was the other future, the one that Sirius was _not _going to let happen.

"God, Sirius, sit back down. You're in terrible shape," insisted James.

"Got some things to do," Sirius returned, shaking his head. He was pleased to note that the action didn't cause the nerve centers in his head to explode with pain.

Lily came in behind her husband, also looking concerned. She suggested levelly, but clearly with no real hope, "Surely they can wait a little while?" She had an apron on and a wooden spoon in her hand; clearly, she was cooking their supper.

"No, they can't."

Sirius tested out his legs by walking across the room and peering out the window. He saw no signs of massing dark wizards, and his legs seemed to be holding, so he turned and walked back. On his way, he scooped Harry from the playpen, more from need of something to do than because he actually wanted to hold the child. He had some lives to say.

James caught the expression settling over his best friend's face and hurriedly stepped forward. He snatched his son away and backed up again. Lily looked confused, and Harry began squirming.

"Sirius," James began in a very low voice full of forced calm, "Sirius, you've got your battle face on."

Sirius had expected that. "Good," he said, searching his pockets. "Where'd you put my wand when you brought me inside?"

"The end table," supplied Lily, when her husband didn't volunteer the information. Her eyes had widened slightly and she was beginning to look a little pale. "... Next to the time-turner."

He'd started back to collect his wand, but something in the way Lily said the last word stopped Sirius. He looked over his shoulder at the couple. "You took the time-turner off my neck?"

James nodded, bouncing Harry some to quiet him. His hazel eyes serious, he asked, "Where'd you get a time-turner, Sirius?"

"I stole one from the Ministry," answered Sirius bluntly. "About six hours from now."

"Six hou-- What's going _on_, Black?" Lily demanded, her hands clinging to the back of James's shirt.

"In an couple of hours, Peter's going to betray you and the Dark Lord is going to show up on your doorstep," explained Sirius. He was very glad his voice didn't waiver much. "He's going to kill both of you, and then he's going to go after Harry."

They stared at him, even Harry who probably didn't understand exactly what he'd said. James was whiter than Sirius had ever seen him, and Lily was shaking. "Oh my g--"

Sirius knew he was being harsh, but he hadn't time to think of a better way to say things. "I didn't want that to happen, of course, and since at that point I was already wanted for apparently being your Secret Keeper, I figured I had nothing left to lose. Hence the time-turner, hence my presence, hence why the things I need to do can't wait."

There were a few tense moments of silence, during which Sirius let them think about things. Such as how he had to be the real Sirius because only the real Sirius knew the Secret of where they were staying -- unless Peter really had betrayed them, in which case they might as well trust him and go along with whatever he had to say, because they'd probably end up dead anyway.

"You have a plan?" snapped James, faintly, proving that he intended to be a game sport about things and cooperate. Relief washed over Sirius and forced him to smile.

"Yes. I have a plan."

°

**31 October, 1981**

**9:02 PM**

"Messing with time is very dangerous, Mr Black," Albus Dumbledore stated, looking over his half-moon spectacles at Sirius.

"I know that," Sirius assured the Headmaster. Everything about him felt tense; he could practically feel the seconds ticking away. "I've thought it out carefully, I assure you. Anyway, there's not much that can be done to _avoid _messing with time, at this point, as I'm sure you'll agree."

Dumbledore did not look entirely happy as he nodded. "Indeed."

"I've given the Sirius of this time -- the one that didn't see James and Lily dead -- instructions and the time-turner, and he's going to go back exactly as far as I did, at exactly the same time as I did," Sirius said earnestly, moving a little closer to the Headmaster's desk. "If things work out as I hope they do, then that Sirius will just sort of... fade out."

"And what if it's _you _that 'fades out'?" questioned Dumbledore, his tone mild. "All this effort of yours might turn out to be-- have been a waste of time."

Not sure the pun was intentional, Sirius ignored it. "That's what I've come to talk to you about..."


	2. Chapter One

**Disclaimer:** Please see Chapter Zero, if you need to be refreshed on this one.

**Author's Notes:** Reviews? Why yes, thank you, I do appreciate those! They make me happy, which makes me write faster. Teehee.

**o.o.o.o**

**31 October, 1981**

**9:15 PM**

With Sirius's memories locked safely in the Headmaster's Pensive, surrounded by charms to prevent their being altered by the effects of time travel, the two men went over Sirius's plan again. Neither was completely pleased with it, after Dumbledore had changed a few things, but they had no choice at this point.

"... And you're absolutely sure that young Harry vanquished Lord Voldemort?" queried Dumbledore, frowning thoughtfully. He continued after Sirius nodded, "It was definitely _him_?"

"Definitely, Headmaster," Sirius averred. "It was just the two of them at that point, I'm sure of it, so Lily or James couldn't have done it."

"Very well." Dumbledore sighed, and Sirius almost felt bad for having brought this information back with him. "Do as you wish. But please, be careful. Until we can be sure that Lord Voldemort is dead, Harry is very important."

Sirius nodded solemnly. "I know. Don't worry, I'm his godfather. I'll take care of him."

"See that you do."

°

**31 October, 1981**

**9:29 PM**

It seemed his inside information was proving much less useful than he'd expected. The house was apparently empty.

Without the Fidelus Charm to protect them -- Pettigrew had been telling the truth about being their Secret Keeper and where they were, of that he was sure -- the Potters couldn't be too hard to track down. Lord Voldemort sneered, mind already whirling through possible places they might have fled to.

Down the hallway, in the nursery, a baby wailed.

_Ah ha_.

°

**31 October, 1981**

**9:30 PM**

Peter Pettigrew was terrified. He'd been dismissed by the Dark Lord after giving up the secret to the Potter's location. He'd gone home, as he'd planned to, but Albus Dumbledore was waiting for him.

And somehow, he already knew about Peter's betrayal.

°

**31 October, 1981**

**9:32 PM**

Lord Voldemort had suspected a trap, but the only thing he saw when he reached the source of the plaintive cries was a dark-haired, green-eyed toddler. Little Harry didn't seem to have noticed the arrival of the evilest man alive. He lay there and cried, apparently wanting his parents.

Even after looking around twice, Lord Voldemort didn't see anyone else. There was no-one hiding behind any of the furniture, waiting to spring out at him. He smiled an evil, snaky smile. This would be easier than he thought, after all.

Lord Voldemort pointed his wand at the child crying in his crib.

As soon as the wood was leveled at him, Harry stopped wailing. He turned his head, and his green eyes focused on the Dark Lord curiously.

Lord Voldemort laughed.

"_Avada Kedavra_!"

Somewhere in a different time, Lily Potter screamed and stood firmly in front of her son. But in this time, there was nothing between the bawling baby and the Dark Lord.

Green filled the room.

A body fell against the railing of the crib. Somewhere in a different time, someone laughed a cold, pleased laugh.

°

**31 October, 1981**

**10:03 PM**

Lily and James were waiting tensely in the Headmaster's private chambers. Sirius had told them that the Dark Lord would be attacking at 9:30, and that was a half an hour ago. Sirius himself was out taking care of things, and for one reason or another he needed to have Harry with him.

Just the thought that Harry was out there somewhere without his parents made Lily uneasy. And that he was with Sirius...

"I hope he knows what he's doing," mumbled Lily, her arms wrapped around her middle. She leaned against her husband, who was leaning against the wall.

"Don't worry, he has-- Sirius would never let anything happen to Harry," James assured her gently, though he was less certain than he sounded. "Sirius loves him, too."

Lily glanced at the clock for the fifth time in three minutes. She sighed. "Shouldn't they be back by now?"

"Perhaps. We don't know what Sirius is up to," which wasn't really a pleasant thought. James went on quickly. "Besides. Albus agreed to this plan of his. Albus would never put Harry in danger."

"Yes," Lily agreed.

There was nothing else to say.

°

**31 October, 1981**

**10:12 PM**

He'd seen the flash of green light through the curtains and his whole body had tensed. That had been almost forty minutes ago, and he hadn't moved since -- he wasn't even sure if he'd been breathing.

He heard himself approaching from the other side of the house, creeping through the bushes.

"Well?" he demanded, as soon as he was within earshot. "Anything?"

"Not for ages," he told himself, settling into a crouch next to the other, more beat up man. Both of them sighed. "The wards went down, though; he could have just apparated out after... you know."

The first man, older by a few hours than his double, cursed viciously. "The light, you mean."

"Yeah." For a few minutes, Sirius sat and stared at himself staring at the house. When he'd shown up on his doorstep earlier that evening, he'd been suspicious at first. But then the other Sirius had explained things, and said a few things that Sirius had never told _anyone _about, and now... well, Sirius supposed he had no choice but to trust himself.

"All right," announced Sirius the mastermind, interrupting the reverie of his other self. His mouth was set in a grim line, his lips barely moving as he spoke. "I'm going to check on him. Coming?"

"As if I'd trust you in there on your own."

They entered the house as quietly as they could and paused just over the threshold, listening. After a full minute of no noise, they continued cautiously through the foyer and past the living room.

Every room they past was empty and silent, until at last there was only one room left unchecked.

When they got into the nursery, their eyes instantly went to the dead body -- it was the only thing they saw for several minutes. Sirius the younger gave a bloodcurdling scream, already feeling his body shut down as he went into shock. He crumpled to the floor, still staring. The expression on the face of the older Sirius was unreadable.

"Interesting."


	3. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer: **As I said, please see Chapter Zero, if you need to be refreshed on this. It's really very simple.

**Author's Notes: **Okay, that last chapter had a truly evil cliffhanger; for that, I apologize. (For your reviews, I thank you. Very muchly!) Lots of thanks to my friend Hanana, for her help with the German lines.

Please don't forget to review.

**o.o.o.o**

**31 October, 1981**

**10:37 PM**

Somewhat reluctantly, Sirius led Albus Dumbledore into the Potters' nursery, and pointed at the body on the floor. He heard the Headmaster's sharp intake of breath, and winced again sympathetically.

"This is precisely as you found it?" he demanded urgently, bending over the distorted corpse of the Dark Lord.

"Yes, exactly," the younger Sirius assured him, from his seat on the floor by the door. His back was propped against the wall, and he still looked faintly ill. "We didn't touch or move anything."

"Not even Harry," the other Sirius added quickly. He was staring at his godson.

Harry was sitting complacently in his crib and grinning at the world, despite the fact that most of his face was covered in blood from the cut running diagonally across his face. Thankfully, miraculously, it had already stopped bleeding by the time they'd arrived, but it still looked awful.

"Mm," Dumbledore nodded his approval of this. His concentration was clearly on something else, however. "The soul that was in this body did not actually perish. Hm. It's as I feared, then. Voldemort isn't really dead."

"What?" the man sitting on the floor asked faintly.

"Oh, he's harmless enough at the moment, don't worry; he has no body now," remarked Dumbledore, waving his wand over the body and vanishing it somewhere else for further study later on. "But it appears he took certain precautions against death which could prove rather difficult for us."

Even the older Sirius was starting to look a bit like he really didn't feel well. Neither said anything, though, preferring to let Dumbledore continue to think out loud.

"Still, we've more pressing things with which to concern ourselves." With that, Dumbledore appeared to dismiss the Dark Lord from his mind, and made his way to the crib.

He reached in and lifted Harry carefully over the railing. For a second, as he stared at the toddler, he seemed to freeze, and a strange look came over his face.

"What is it?" inquired Sirius the older, with a worried frown.

"... This is not the Harry Potter that Lily and James took with them into hiding a week ago," pronounced Dumbledore gravely.

Both sets of Sirius's eyes narrowed. The younger one asked cautiously, "What do you mean, it's not Harry? What are you talking about?"

Dumbledore shook his head gently. "Oh, it is Harry, certainly. But there's something different about him."

"You mean, besides the gigantic gash on his face that we weren't allowed to do anything about?" snorted the younger Sirius.

"Yes, besides that." Dumbledore looked up at them, cradling Harry in his arms. There was a strange gleam in the blue eyes. "Do you remember the diagnostic I performed on Harry, when Lily and James came to my office the day before the Fidelus was cast?"

Both Blacks nodded. "The spell to show you his magic," said the older one, frowning slightly as he tried to figure out where the Headmaster was going with this.

"I trust that you both remember the results of that test?" prompted Dumbledore, as he moved out of the nursery. Following him, Sirius and his other self nodded again.

When they reached the Potters' living room, Dumbledore set Harry on the floor, smack in the center of the room. Oddly, Harry sat still, moving only to stare up at the adults gathered around him. Dumbledore motioned Sirius away, and all three men moved back.

"Look at this," instructed Dumbledore, drawing his wand.

As Sirius and Sirius watched, Dumbledore repeated the spell that they'd seen him use a little more than a week ago.

When Dumbledore had first done it, a small ball of bright white light had appeared over Harry's head, hovered for a moment, and then exploded around them in a rush of color. There had been sound, as well, that had reminded them oddly of phoenix song. Dumbledore insisted this all meant that his magic was young, still pure and growing, but already strong. Unusually strong, he'd said.

Now, however...

The ball of light was still there, perhaps a little brighter and a little less white, and it behaved exactly as it had before. But in addition, a glow appeared around Harry's body, mostly white but slightly gold around the edges. It started faint, but in less than a second, it had brightened to near-blinding radiance. When the original ball of light erupted, so did the glow.

The colors were so intense, so bright, that they all had to look away. Sound was there, as well, much louder than before, and along with the phoenix song there was a myriad of voices and noises that flashed by too quickly for them to grasp.

Then the light and the sound faded, and all that was left was Harry, sitting on the rug.

"Heh heh Paaafoo!" laughed Harry.

"_Merlin_," younger Sirius exclaimed, his knees feeling weak again. "What... what was that?"

"Harry's magic," answered Dumbledore calmly, though he too looked a little shaken.

"What happened to it?" asked the other Sirius. He hurried over and scooped up the laughing baby as he spoke, but almost dropped him again immediately. "Holy shit, he's on fire."

"He is not," said Dumbledore, laughing unexpectedly. "Though I can understand it if he feels as if he ought to be. It's just an aftereffect of the spell being used on someone with so much magic."

"What _happened to him_?" the Sirii snapped in unison.

"His magic is as it was before, but for some reason... it seems to have doubled, and the new half matured to what it would be -- _will be_ -- in his prime," Dumbledore explained, still remarkably cheerful. "And if I would have to guess _why_, I would probably say it has something to do with that bit of time travel of yours, Mr Black."

The Sirii exchanged a worried glance, both of them imagining Lily's probable reaction to learning that they'd screwed up her son's magic. "This isn't going to hurt him, is it?" asked the first Sirius hesitantly.

"Heavens, no." Dumbledore laughed again. "It will probably only help him, I imagine."

Both Sirii sighed in relief. "Good."

"You'd better take him back to Hogwarts, though," continued Dumbledore, nodding toward the toddler. "So that his parents can say goodbye to him."

Sirius and Sirius paled. "_Say goodbye to him_!"

°

**31 October, 1981**

**11:11 PM**

"Say goodbye to him?" shrieked Lily, clutching her son to her chest and staring at the Headmaster disbelievingly. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Lily, please understand," implored Dumbledore, apparently still calm. "As soon as word gets out that Voldemort has been defeated, the two of you are going to become targets. The safest place for Harry is somewhere they won't be looking for him -- Sirius can take him and hide on the continent. Remus Lupin can even accompany them, if you'd like."

"Why can't _we_ take him?" James demanded harshly. He was glaring at Dumbledore furiously, his hands on his wife's shoulders. "I still don't understand that part."

"An adult witch and wizard -- particularly ones of your standing -- would be much more difficult to conceal for any length of time than a little child of no particular note," murmured Dumbledore soothingly.

At this, Lily looked even more indignant. "'No particular note'? He just killed the Dark Lord and saved the entire wizarding world!"

"What about Sirius and Remus?" snapped James, over his wife's exclamation. "They're _both_ adult wizards. How come you say they can hide with him, and we can't?"

The Potters were not at all reassured when they saw Dumbledore's slight smile. "No one is going to be looking for _them_."

Lily and James stared at each other, thinking. "How long will they have to stay in hiding?" she inquired, very slowly.

"There's no way to know for sure," answered Dumbledore with a slight shrug. "A few years perhaps."

_A few years!_ Lily's heart skipped a beat. She looked down, staring fixedly at her baby. Harry's face had been cleaned of blood, but the lightning bolt shaped cut hadn't been healed -- Pomfrey had insisted that it wasn't the kind that could be fixed with magic. She said it would heal on its own, within a couple of days, and would probably only leave him with a small scar on his forehead.

Harry was only one year old. In a few years, he'd have grown up _so much_... Could she give up seeing all of that?

She glanced at her husband. The angry set of his face and the resigned look in his eye told her that she'd have to. She sighed, and hugged her son.

"Well," muttered James, though he looked as if he felt the same way Lily did, "Well, I suppose having him far away is better than having him in danger."

Dumbledore beamed at them. "It's settled, then."

°

**1 November, 1981**

**1:27 AM**

Standing outside the Potters' currently empty house, _Sirius spun the tiny hourglass five, six, seven times._ Exactly as he'd been told to do...

_The world blurred around him..._

Strange, he'd used a time-turner before, and it hadn't felt like this.

_...and as he rushed back in time he felt his injuries overtake him..._

Oh, he realized, smiling broadly, it felt different because it was _working_, his plan was actually _working_.

_... and he unwillingly lost consciousness._

°

**28 August, 1991**

**9:30 AM**

"Harry?" Sirius yelled up the stairs. There was a piece of parchment clutched tightly in his left hand.

Remus, in his study, stuck his head through the door into the hall and smiled slightly. "Harry's in the garden," he said brightly, then caught sight of what Sirius was holding. His expression darkened. "Is that what I think it is?"

Sirius nodded grimly. "Yes. Start packing."

He turned and walked through the kitchen to the back door. Outside in the sunny garden, sitting in a pool of shade underneath a large tree, was a skinny black-haired boy, scribbling something in an enourmous book with a ballpoint pen. From where Sirius was, couldn't even see the scar on his forehead.

"Harry!" The little boy looked up. Speaking in German, Sirius called out, "_Komm schnell drinnen. Wir müssen gehen._"

The expression on the boy's face was instantly guarded, as it was every time Sirius told him that they were leaving. He too spoke in German, asking, "_Gehen? Wohin dann?_"

"_Nach Hause, natürlich,_" declared Sirius, forcing a grin.

Harry was suddenly on his feet, the book forgotten. His emerald green eyes were shining hopefully. "_... Nach England?_"

"_Ja, nach England,_" Sirius agreed, and he couldn't help but laugh at the child's enthusiasm.

"Finally!" cried Harry, darting past Sirius into the house. He'd slipped and spoken in English, but Sirius didn't have the heart to reprimand him.

Harry could be heard thundering up the stairs, and Sirius assumed he was heading to his room to begin packing his things. He sighed, and in the other room, Remus did the same thing.

"Yes, Harry, _finally_."

**o.o.o.o**

_Komm schnell drinnen. Wir müssen gehen._ "Harry! Come inside, quickly. We have to go."

_Gehen? Wohin dann?_ "Go? Go where?"

_Nach Hause, natürlich._ "Home, silly."

_... Nach England?_ "... To England?"

_Ja, nach England._ "Yes, to England."


	4. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer:** If you're in need of a refresher, see Chapter Zero.

**Author's Notes: **Many gigantic thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. Your interest in this story is lovely.

My friends keep telling me that Harry's kind of freaky. What do you think?

(Review review review! Tis good karma!)

**o.o.o.o**

**29 August, 1991**

**3:05 PM**

Sirius, Harry, and Remus (he'd decided to accompany them, as with them off the continent he really had no reason to stay himself) had left Remus's house a little before 11 AM. Sirius had needed to keep Harry occupied for a few moments while Remus disappeared -- to cast a few memory charms on the people he'd been renting his cottage from -- and then with a few other deftly concealed bits of magic, they'd got a cab and were off to the airport.

Their flight, prearranged by Dumbledore, had been uneventful and swift; perhaps a bit swifter than it should have been. Sirius and Remus had shared a few smiles and enjoyed having magic in their lives again after so long. Sirius's relief was probably greater, having been away from it for longer, but they both appreciated the sentiment.

Harry, of course, was as uninformed as ever.

Since landing on English soil, as a matter of fact, he'd been remarkably uninterested in anything, except the fact they were in _England_. He was almost worrisomely excited. Remus smiled a little, watching him, but Sirius's expression darkened.

He was remembering _why_ Harry would be delighted at the prospect of being in England.

The boy had been maybe six years old, and asking about why they moved around so much, and where his parents were. Sirius had explained to him, as best he could, that Harry's parents loved and missed their son very much, but it just wasn't possible for him to live with them just then.

_"Someday, Harry, we're going back home."_

_Harry's small face twisted as he thought. "Where's home?"_

_"Home is where your parents are," Sirius explained, with a light chuckle._

_"Where are_ they_?" demanded Harry._

_Sirius tried to laugh again, but he missed Lily and James even more than Harry did. For a moment, it showed on his face. "In England." Then he ended the conversation by leaving the room._

"Are Mum and Dad very far away now?" asked eleven year old Harry, as they went to collect their baggage. He swung his arms excitedly. He was old enough that he didn't need to hold someone's hand in crowded places, but Sirius and Remus still kept him firmly between them when took him anywhere, so Harry's action caused him to whack both men's carryon-bags. Harry laughed, and did it again.

"You know, kid, that we can't take you right to your parents, don't you?" ventured Sirius, who had already mentioned this twice that day. He wanted to be sure, though, that Harry understood they weren't going _directly_ to the Potters' house. Harry nodded, without the delighted expression on his face diminishing one iota.

At the moment, they were watching the turnstile for the rest of their bags, and Sirius decided he could let it go for the time being.

Harry talked about nothing as they gathered the luggage, and smiled a lot more than either man was used to seeing. They were both unspeakably pleased that the boy would finally be allowed to stay with his parents again, and for a moment harbored feelings of displeasure toward Albus Dumbledore for insisting. However, when Harry laughed again, they found they couldn't really be mad at anyone.

They were very glad, even, that Dumbledore had written and told them they shouldn't be around when Lily and James explained to Harry about magic, and how they'd been keeping it from him for years. Harry was _not_ going to be pleased about _that_ -- he _detested_ secrets, and could say so in more than five languages.

One thing Sirius was _sure_ to be glad he was rid of were his weekly 'progress reports' to Dumbledore. He was also, if he let himself consider it, glad to be done writing excessively detailed Harry Letters to Lily and James. It would be a relief when he was back in their care, instead of Sirius's; he'd never intended to have children, but very often in the past ten years it had seemed to him as if he'd been forced to adopt Harry. (And did not, actually, mind that much.)

Sirius shook his head. Now that they were finally back in England, he didn't intend to waste his remaining Harry-time with useless _brooding_. He'd get to see James soon enough, anyway, the thought of which cheered him up immensely.

At Customs, they were stuck behind a frazzled Bulgarian, attempting to get a couple of oddly shaped packages through, who was being harassed by several officials with raised voices. The poor man was rattling away in rapid Bulgarian, but all of the uniformed men around him were yelling in English.

Sirius groaned; this didn't look like it was going to be cleared up any time soon. He glanced at his watch, and found to his dismay that it was almost evening already. Across the top of Harry's head, Remus sighed his apparent agreement.

Harry, clutching his bags in white knuckled fists, was staring at the drama unfolding before them with wide eyes.

"This never would have happened to us if these people weren't... you-know-whats," Sirius muttered to Remus, sounding more than a little annoyed, and shooting a pointed look at his young charge, who wasn't paying them any attention. "We wouldn't get stuck anywhere if they weren't you-know-whats."

A particularly large customs official hollered extra loudly at the poor Bulgarian, ordering him to do something or other. A thin line of displeasure appeared between Harry's eyebrows.

"Maybe," Remus returned noncommittally. He looked deeply skeptical, and also a little amused at Sirius's impatience. "You never know. They could all want a good look at _who we're with_."

A finger was pointed harshly at the Bulgarian's face, when he didn't comply quickly enough for the official's tastes, from which the man recoiled slightly. Harry's own finger's flexed sharply on the handles of his bags.

"Ah, you've a point." Sirius started to laugh, at some mental image that he apparently found quite funny. Remus even smiled wryly.

The Bulgarian attempted, with a wail of distress, to prevent the officials from opening one of the oddly shaped packages. He was thrown away roughly, and the particularly large man (who seemed to be in charge) began to threaten him with some apparently very nasty things, of which only the word 'JAIL' could be understood.

Sirius and Remus's attention was called back to these goings on when Harry, beginning to look highly upset, dropped his bags carelessly to the ground. Before they could stop him, he'd started running for the Bulgarian.

"Stop that!" he shouted angrily at the customs officials, "Can't you see he doesn't understand you?"

The officials seemed justifiably startled by this interruption, and didn't do anything for a moment. Harry, however, turned to the Bulgarian, and began speaking to him earnestly.

Remus stood rooted to the spot, his eyes wide. Beside him, Sirius asked in a shocked, barely audible whispered, "When did we teach him _Bulgarian_?"

The poor harassed man was looking at Harry gratefully and speaking rapidly in his foreign tongue, with the boy nodding along. One of the customs officials had recovered enough to suggest, in a slightly meek tone, that Harry let them deal with the situation (it was their job). Harry shushed her absently with a little wave of his hand.

"I don't think we did," replied Remus, in the same tone. "Or, if we did, we weren't there at the time."

The Bulgarian, looking much calmer, smiled as Harry turned around to translate his words to the Brits. It appeared that the only thing he'd done wrong was not explain something properly, and as he couldn't speak English, this was regrettable but understandable.

Sirius swallowed dryly. "Yeah."

°

**29 August, 1991**

**6:59 PM**

A car had been arranged by Dumbledore, through the Ministry of Magic. They were not entirely sure how Albus had convinced the Ministry, but thought it was probably likely that James'd had something to do with it. It was probable, after all, since he was a very prominent official, as the head of the Department of Games and Sports.

And then, there was Harry himself. He was so obvious to the two wizards, though, that they didn't bother mentioning it.

Sirius left Harry with Remus while he went and pretended to acquire the car from a Muggle rental service. (Honestly, this whole business would have been much better if they just could have used magic.)

Their first stop was the house that been arranged for Remus, where they deposited all of the things but Harry's. After leaving Harry with his parents, Remus and Sirius would return to Remus's house, where Sirius would spend the night, before heading over to inspect the house he'd recently inherited from his parents.

They'd settled Harry in the kitchen with a light snack while they brought the luggage in, so he didn't notice whose things they put where. In truth, he was beginning to look a bit tired... This, Sirius knew from experience, was only because he'd been up since before 5 AM, and had only gone to bed around 10 the night before. If it had been completely up to him, the boy would definitely have gotten more sleep at night. But Sirius had realized quite awhile before then that sometimes, Harry simply could not be controlled, where it wasn't absolutely _necessary_.

In fact, occasionally, Sirius would experience the most unnerving sensation, being suspicious that Harry was actually controlling _him_. The boy, when he disliked something a little, displayed a passive-aggressiveness that bordered on manipulative. It was very hard to counter, and reminded Sirius excessively of someone else, but he couldn't really pinpoint _who_.

Most times, though, Harry was a darling to be around, and a joy to teach. Well, all right, Sirius would admit that sometimes he'd do something (usually stupid) and Harry would get mad. And then he would be impossible. It often appeared to Sirius as if Harry _resented_ his godfather for making him angry.

Harry was definitely going to be angry when he discovered what the adults concerned with him had been hiding since he was a baby. Oh yes, he was going to be so _very_ angry...

°

**29 August, 1991**

**7:53 PM**

Lily and James Potter were waiting, if not patiently, than at least _anxiously_ to see their son again. The 'few years' that Dumbledore had warned them they might be separated had turned into almost a full decade. James even had a strong hunch that the only reason Harry'd been brought back _now_ was so he could attend Hogwarts.

He didn't care why the boy was back, though. He was just glad his son was _back_. Home at last.

He waiting by the door, ready to yell out to Lily the moment he saw Remus's car approaching.

Would his son really look as much like his father as he appeared to in all the pictures he and Lily had been sent, James wondered -- he hoped so, but knew that photographs could often be deceptive.

So he waited, and watched.

°

**29 August, 1991**

**8:00 PM**

The moment Harry stepped into his parents' house in Godric's Hollow, he was engulfed in an enormous bear hug by a beautiful redheaded woman who smelled like flowers and, for some reason, cookies. He stood very still as this happened, because he wasn't used to being hugged by anyone but Sirius. Eventually, he managed to pat her back awkwardly, and she withdrew to where he could see her smiling face and watering green eyes.

"... Hullo, Mum," he offered a little shyly.

Upon hearing him say this, Lily burst into loud, uncontrollable sobs, and swept Harry up into her arms again. This hug felt even more awkward to Harry, as he hadn't a clue what he'd done to upset her. Besides, she was getting him all wet.

Remus, having witnessed Lily's first hug, had tactfully withdraw into the kitchen from which Lily and James had just come.

"Er," Harry said helplessly, looking to his godfather for help.

Sirius, however, had turned away, toward a wall. Harry couldn't see his face, probably because it was covered by both of his shaking hands, but his shoulders were heaving suspiciously. There was another black haired man, this one wearing glasses, hugging Sirius as if his life depended on it.

As Harry (with child-sized arms around the mother he'd never seen before) watched them, Sirius removed his hands from his face. There was a wetness on his cheeks which proved he'd been crying -- Harry's stomach turned over unpleasantly -- but it was only visible for a second, because he'd buried his face in the other man's shoulder while returning the hug.

The man with his godfather, Harry could see, had very unruly hair and a long face. Harry felt a twinge of something in his chest; this must be his father.

The two men pulled apart abruptly, wiping their faces. Both looked away from each other, trying to pretend they hadn't just broken down in a very unmanly way at the sight of their best friend, after so long apart.

"Oh, my baby," Lily gasped wetly, finally pulling away from Harry. She stared almost hungrily at her son. "Oh, _James_, just _look_ at him!"

James smiled so broadly Harry thought his face would crack. "In a minute," he told his wife, and pulled Harry into his own hug.

As he expected this one more than his mother's, Harry felt more comfortable in his father embrace, partly since it reminded him very much of hugging Sirius. James smelled differently, of course, and he held Harry a little more tightly, but over all it was very similar. Lily, Harry had discovered, was _soft_, which neither his father or his godfather was by any means, and it was extremely _unnerving_.

"There," said James, as he set Harry back on his feet. "_Now_ I can look at him. Good Merlin, son, you look just like me."

"Sirius says so," Harry mumbled, not sure what he was supposed to say. Was he supposed to speak at all? Was he supposed to call his father 'sir'? Was he supposed to agree, out of hand? (Did one normally agree to everything one's parents said?)

'_What if I mess up?_' he wondered frantically, lowering his troubled gaze to the floor. '_What if I say something they don't like, and they send me away again? Oooh, I don't want them to do that -- Sirius said he hoped he could stay here awhile._'

Sirius caught the badly hidden expression of anxiety on his godson's face, and put a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. Harry looked up quickly, and Sirius smiled at him, though he didn't feel it. They'd be saying goodbye soon, and he wasn't sure when he'd get to see the boy again.

"Harry," Lily said warmly, though she still looked uncomfortably teary, "I'm so very glad to have you back again. I've missed you -- _Oh!_ -- so very much."

Harry looked back at the floor.

He wanted to be able to say that he'd missed his parents as much as they seemed to have missed him, but he hadn't _known_ them, and instead of missing them, had longed to _meet_ them.

He shrugged stiffly.

His parents exchanged glances that he couldn't see, and then his father proclaimed, "Harry, we've got a surprise for you. Would you like to see it?"

Because it seemed the right thing to do, Harry nodded.

"I'll go get it," Lily declared, and hurried into the kitchen.

The three males stood in silence until she returned. With her came Remus, and three children much smaller than Harry. Remus whispered something to Siruis, while looking sick again, and continued right on out the door, which made Harry frown.

James took the smallest of the children, a baby of no more than a year old, from his wife, and settled her comfortably against his chest. "Well, here we go, Harry," he began, beaming, "I'd like you to meet your sisters. Ella, Rachel, and Alice."

"I know who you are!" declared Ella, who was the oldest, smiling triumphantly. She walked right up close to Harry, and craned her head to look at him better. "I've seen pictures of you; you're the boy Mummy and Daddy get a letter about every week. You're my brother!"

Harry stared at the little girl, obviously about four years old, and didn't say anything. His expression had closed down, and he looked very cold. "They get letters about me?" he asked, in a voice that seemed to be very calm, for an eleven year old boy.

He'd never gotten a letter about his parents, or even _from_ them. The closest anything came were the presents that always seemed to be magically waiting for him on Christmases and his birthdays. Even those, though, he'd never been entirely sure were from his parents, as Sirius had never exactly _said_ they were.

Ella nodded. She was still smiling. "I know _all_ about you! Mummy reads the letters to me sometimes."

He hadn't even known he'd had siblings.

Harry turned his back on the little girl, facing Sirius. "Can we go home now?" he asked sharply, his throat catching the last word oddly.

Sirius didn't react, so Harry reached for his hand and prompted, "Can we, please? I want to check on Remus. He didn't look well."

"Harry--" Lily looked absolutely stricken, and James only a bit less so. "Harry, didn't Sirius tell you? _This_ is your home."

Harry frowned back at his father, shaking his head. "But Sirius doesn't live here. It can't be home."

Lily's devastated expression barely registered in Sirius's brain. He felt all over as if he'd somehow betrayed the very people he'd been trying to help, by raising Harry for them. And then he went pale and the feeling got worse, as he suddenly realized what, exactly, Harry was _saying_ to him.

_Home is where your parents are._


	5. Chapter Four

**Disclaimer: **Please see Chapter Zero.

**Author's Notes: **Okay, longish chapter here. There are a few parts of it that I tried to make as much like their corresponding canon-bits as possible; I'm afraid my memory isn't perfect, though, and anyway I required a few differences. You'll all forgive me, I hope?

Thank you all for your reviews -- you've no idea how nice it feels to recieve such positive feedback, hehe.

**o.o.o.o**

**29 August, 1991**

**8:20 PM**

It was taking so long to reconcile Harry to the idea of remaining with his parents and siblings, without Sirius, that James began to be rather desperate. It had never occurred to him that he might have to convince his son to love him, and the reality of it was proving quite as upsetting as having to say goodbye to Harry in the first place, all those years ago.

Lily had gone upstairs, on the pretext of putting the girls to bed, and was no doubt sobbing away into her pillow her own distress and bewilderment at this development. '_If only,_' James thought, '_I could do the same thing._'

After awhile, it became very clear that the only person Harry was really willing to talk to was Sirius. And definitely _not_ in English.

James wasn't sure exactly what language Harry _was_ speaking, and was even less sure what they were actually _saying_. He himself spoke only English, with a smattering of Latin and French he'd picked up throughout his life, quite accidentally.

A few times, he thought he might have understood a word or two of the boy's rapid-fire dialogue to his godfather, and gradually he realized that Harry kept _switching_ which language he was speaking in. (To James's knowledge, gathered through Sirius's weekly letters, Harry spoke three languages fluently, and could make a far showing in at least two others.)

Sirius, who looked nearly as stricken as James and Lily, could hardly get a word in edgewise. Even he seemed to be having trouble understanding his godson.

"You know, maybe it's just a bit childish of me, but I'd kind of like to be able to understand," James said loudly, interrupting his son. Harry looked up, his expression rather contrite, and James continued, "Anything you have to say about this, Harry, you'd be better off saying to _me_. I'm your _father_, you're supposed to tell me things so I can try and make them better."

"But that's what Sirius is for," Harry muttered, frowning a little. This time, James could see it was mostly confusion and hardly any anger. There was something else as well, but he couldn't place just what.

"Sirius is your godfather," agreed James, just a bit tightly. "He's supposed to try and make things better for you, too. But only when I'm not around to do it for myself. Do you understand?"

Harry shrugged, but at least let go of Sirius's hand and stepped nearer his father. He looked much calmer, though his face and voice were still full of that emotion that James couldn't place.

"No, I don't understand," said Harry very flatly. "Not really. I'm sure I will, though, if you give me awhile."

"Good," James allowed, with a nod. "Are you ready to say goodbye to Sirius, then? He really ought to get going."

Panic flashed across Harry's young face, briefly, and James winced. "Can't I go with him? Just tonight?" pleaded the boy urgently. "I promise I'll come back, but..."

James shook his head slowly, saying, "I'm sorry, Harry, but no. Your mother and I have quite a few things we need to tell you, and then we've got a pretty long list of things to do, before you start school."

At the word 'school', Harry made a face, and James nearly forgot himself and laughed, except his son went back to looking forlorn. Sirius, next to Harry, looked as if he was trying his hardest to blend into the wall behind him.

"I'll tell you what," suggested James abruptly, glancing at his best friend. "How about we have Sirius visit tomorrow, as soon as he can. Will that be good?"

Sirius's face lit up. It was unclear which he was pleased with more; the thought of seeing his godson again right away, or of spending more time with his best friend after nearly a decade.

Harry considered this for a moment. "I suppose I have no choice," he allowed finally, with a tiny sigh. "As long, I mean, as long as Sirius wants to come visit me--us. I don't want to... bother him."

Again, James winced, and this time Sirius joined him. There was no escaping the implication that Harry believed Sirius, the only adult Harry really believed to have been a constant in his life, had gotten tired of him.

"Of course I want to, kid," Sirius exclaimed, in a tone of slight rebuke. "You know better than to think something like that."

Harry hung his head, sheepish. "Yes, Sirius."

"Well, if that's settled," muttered James, as Lily came down the stairs. Her eyes were red, but when James sent her a slight smile, she returned it with relief.

"Are you going now, Sirius?" she asked, walking over to give him a hug, since she hadn't when he'd arrived.

Sirius nodded, returning the hug. "Yes, I think so. I'm coming back for a bit tomorrow, though. Make sure Harry's not telling you tall tales about how I treated him, and all that."

Pleased that things had progressed to where Sirius could joke about them, Lily pretended to laugh.

"Where are you staying, Sirius?" Harry piped up suddenly, giving his godfather a curious look.

Sirius recognized the expression. Lily had no idea why he winced at her son's words, but he did.

"Er," he said eloquently, avoiding Harry's eye. "Remus has offered to let me stay the night at his house, but then I think I'm going to be moving into an old house that my parents left me."

"And how are you getting there?" persisted Harry, his eyes narrowed now. "Remus took the car."

"Er," Sirius repeated, extremely uncomfortable. "Well, I... Actually, kid, your dad would be a better person to answer that for you."

James threw him a dirty look (it was rather halfhearted, as he was too busy being proud of his son for paying attention) while Lily laughed softly.

"And he will, in just a minute, too," she assured her son, reaching cautiously for his hand. When he didn't flinch or pull back, she smiled down at him. "Come into the kitchen, Harry, while Sirius and your father say goodbye. Your sisters and I made you some fresh cookies, to welcome you home."

Though his face twisted slightly at the reference to his sisters, Harry followed her obediently. Right before they made it into the kitchen, he glanced back at Sirius, who smiled encouragingly.

It was painful, seeing the boy so hesitant around his own parents.

"You like shortbread cookies, don't you?" they heard Lily ask brightly. Harry's response was inaudible in the other room, but whatever it was, it caused Lily to laugh.

Sirius and James stood a little awkwardly, until after a moment, Sirius offered apologetically, "I'm really sorry about this, James. I didn't-- I had no idea he'd react like that."

"It's not your fault," James said reassuringly, though he looked as if he wasn't quite sure he believed himself. "I never should have let Albus convince me to send him away. You have no idea how much I've regretted it."

"I think I might," Sirius countered, in a whisper. Both men recalled the expression of betrayal on Harry's face when he'd seen his sisters, and discovered that he'd no longer be staying with his godfather. Sirius sighed, and James looked mad at himself.

"Well, I'd better get going," said Sirius, breaking them out of their melancholic interlude. "I warn you, I don't envy you a jot, the task of telling that boy he's been lied to for all his life."

"Lied to?" James blurted, looking faintly startled. "What do you mean?"

Sirius shrugged. "Well, that's how he's going to take it, when you tell him about magic. He doesn't like being lied to, and he doesn't like secrets."

"I'll remember that." James paused a moment, then continued hesitantly, "Sirius?"

"Yes?" responded Sirius, curiously raising both his eyebrows as he used to do when they were still in school.

James thought about a way to phrase what he felt he had to ask, and eventually settled on saying, "You're sure he has no idea about... what happened?"

"Absolutely none," Sirius averred instantly. "I haven't told him a thing; we agreed when we started that that would be yours and Lily's job."

"Oh," said James in a breath of relief. "Good."

"Yeah."

Sirius walked over and gave James another hug, not caring this time how unmanly they looked, because he'd _missed_ James. Besides, there was no-one to see it, and he knew James wouldn't mind. Though they hadn't actually seen each other in years, they both knew they were still each other's best friend. They always would be.

James returned the hug, and watched as Sirius stepped back to apparate. When the other man paused, he frowned quizzically.

Sirius looked uncertain for a second, then said, "If Harry starts talking to his sleeve, or something, just ignore it."

Before James could ask what he meant, Sirius was gone.

°

**29 August, 1991**

**8:47 PM**

"Did you get cookies often, while you were living with Sirius?" Lily found herself asking, as she and her husband watched Harry devour an entire plate full of the treats.

"No," Harry informed them, speaking much more politely than a boy normally does while addressing his parents. "Sirius said they were bad for me, and you wouldn't like it."

This was not really the answer Lily had expected, and she didn't have anything to say to it.

Abruptly, Harry grinned mischievously. "Besides, he couldn't make any if his life depended on it."

"He never could," mumbled James, a distant, wistful look on his face. "Can't cook at all, if I remember correctly."

"Nothing's changed," Harry stated, with a half-smile. "It's been me doing most of the cooking for years now."

This pronouncement made Lily start, and she stared at her son disbelievingly. She seemed to be considering getting angry at Sirius for letting her son do the cooking. Sensing something of this, James put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a pointed look.

He glanced at Harry.

Lily understood. She sighed and nodded.

They might as well tell him now.

"Harry, you're a wizard," James said bluntly. "As am I, and you're mother is a witch."

"You can do magic," added Lily, in case he didn't know what being a wizard meant.

Harry regarded his parents calmly; much more calmly than they'd expected, at any rate.

"Okay," he replied, and went back to his cookies.

James's mouth fell open a little. Lily's brow furrowed. "Just, 'okay'? Aren't you, I don't know, a little surprised?" demanded James.

"No, not really," replied Harry, with a shrug. At his parents' dumbstruck expressions, he added, "Sirius thinks very loudly, some times."

When they still didn't seem convinced, he sighed and reached up under the left cuff of his long-sleeved Muggle shirt. Lily thought she heard a faint hiss. When Harry withdrew his fingers, he was holding a folded and twisted piece of what appeared to be parchment. As he unfolded it, his parents could see that it was covered in fine, steady handwriting, and the traditional green Hogwarts official ink.

Once the piece was completely unfolded, which took awhile, Lily and James could see that it was roughly the size of a page from an average book, and one side was almost completely covered in the writing. Harry passed it to his parents, and allowed them to read it.

It appeared to be a page from a Hogwarts acceptance letter, as Lily had suspected it might be. The name at the top, however, was not Harry's -- it was Sirius's.

"I'm not exactly happy that nobody told me about it before now," Harry remarked almost casually, wiping his hands together over his plate, to remove cookie crumbs.

His parents looked up at him, and Lily at least couldn't find anything to say. "I can't _believe_ he kept his letter," James muttered, seeming slightly astonished. "I can't believe he took it _with him_."

"How long have you known?" Lily asked at last, resignedly. She passed the letter back to him, and he began to refold it exactly as it had been before; he replaced it, wherever he'd had it under his cuff, and she wondered why he kept it.

"Two years," answered Harry. He scratched his head, choosing his words carefully as he elaborated, "We were leaving the house near St Petersburg -- I think Sirius was planning on us going Southwest and staying somewhere along the Volga, but I can't remember now exactly; he changed plans when he got sick, and we ended up in Finland, quite close to Helsinki -- but, yeah, he was sick, and I offered to pack up his things for him. The paper fell out of one of his books, the ones I'm not allowed to read."

"Oh." Lily waited a beat, and then demanded shrilly, "_What_ books, did you say?"

"His magic books, Mum," Harry said soothingly, a half-smile on his face. "He pretended they were adult novels. It amused Remus."

"Oh," Lily repeated, then laughed.

James, on the other hand, was looking closely at his son, as if he expected to see something startling, that he hadn't before. Harry gave him a questioning expression, and his father asked, "You were in Russia?"

"Yeah," Harry said, nodding. "For almost six months, which was a long time for us."

"What were you _doing_ in Russia?" pressed James, looking confused.

Harry shrugged, and gave his father a look which suggested he thought the answer should have been obvious. "Sirius wanted me to get some firsthand practice speaking Russian, so we went there. Naturally. What's wrong with Russia?"

"You speak Russian?" mumbled Lily, a touch faintly.

Harry frowned.

"Look, am I going to have to repeat everything Sirius and I have ever done?" he snapped, quite crossly. "Haven't you been getting letters about me?"

"Well, yes," admitted James, looking a little uncomfortable. "But they didn't really tell us things like that. It was more about the ordinary things you did everyday, such as how you don't like Sirius's cooking much, and get all worried about Remus."

"Well, of course I worry about Remus," said Harry indignantly. "Don't _you_?"

"Er, well, yes, but--"

Feeling that the conversation wouldn't be benefited by going in that direction, Lily interrupted her husband by inquiring, "So, Harry, where were you just before you came back home?"

"Germany," Harry replied promptly. "A small village near Düsseldorf, on the Rhine. Sirius likes rivers."

"He was raised in London," said James, because for some reason this made perfect sense to him.

"I know." A rather dark look passed over Harry's face, but he shook his head quickly and it disappeared. "He told me that when we were staying in Paris."

"You've been to Paris?" asked Lily, unable to keep herself from sounding a little jealous. Harry nodded, but didn't offer further information, so she pressed, "What were you doing in Paris?"

"Practicing my French," Harry replied, staring at her as if he thought this should have been obvious.

Lily looked uncertain. "Oh. Was practice Sirius's only reason for taking you anywhere?"

"No," said Harry, shaking his head sharply. "Sometimes he was running away. And, _no_, Mum, I don't know what he was running from."

"Say, Harry," began James, changing the subject abruptly. "You seem to have been to a lot of places. Just wondering, but how many languages _do_ you speak?"

Harry looked at them both blankly for a moment. He appeared to be thinking very seriously about whether he should answer them or not; James could practically see the wheels in his brain turning. Then Harry looked back down at his empty cookie plate and said flatly, "Five, counting English."

"What are the others?"

"Russian, French, German and Spanish."

Harry wasn't sure why he didn't mention the others. What could it hurt if his parents knew that he could also speak Italian, Latin, Bulgarian, and Swedish? Or that he still wasn't very good at Greek or Portuguese, but was trying very hard? Or that he was due to start Romanian, as soon as he could get Sirius to get him a decent book on it?

Why was he certain that telling them would be a bad idea?

His parents were talking. "...bed soon. You're going to need an early start tomorrow," Lily reminded her husband gently.

"You're right." James nodded, and turned his attention back to Harry. "We're going to do a bit of shopping tomorrow morning, son. School starts the first of the month, and you need a few things by then."

Harry raised his eyebrows and didn't say anything. (He hadn't been told about attending any school, he didn't think. He wasn't sure how well he'd do in a school; he'd never been to one before.)

"Only a few," Lily assured him, misreading his expression as anxiety over the shopping. "Just your wand and robes; your father and I bought everything else already."

Harry shrugged. "All right," he said. He looked down at his plate, realizing that his cookies and his milk were both gone. He looked back up. "Where am I sleeping?"

"I'll show you," Lily offered, and took him to his room.

°

**30 August, 1991**

**6:02 AM**

Harry and his father had gotten up extra early, as he needed to be taken to get his school clothes and his wand, but wanted to avoid the crowds. They'd had a light breakfast, which James had made (personally, Harry considered his own to be much better, but he appreciated the fact that someone else could cook eggs without somehow contriving to accidentally turn them blue, and so hadn't said anything). Then, it was off to Diagon Alley.

Harry's first experience with Floo Powder was not what could be called delightful, but aside from a wobbly moment where Harry and his breakfast disagreed, there were no real mishaps. James greeted the Leaky Cauldron's old bartender, Tom, as they passed.

James led them through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard, where ther was nothing but a trash can and a few weeds.

James grinned at Harry. "Watch this, son," he said. He pulled out his wand -- which Harry had admired earlier -- and tapped the wall behind the trash can three times.

The brick he had touched quivered -- it wriggled -- a small hole appeared in the middle -- it grew wider and wider -- a second later they were facing an archway large enough for a giant to pass through. It was an archway onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight.

"Welcome to Diagon Alley," said James, beaming at Harry. Clearly, he expected his son to show some sort of amazement, or wonderment, or _some_ reaction.

Harry gave him a distinctly nonplussed look.

James shrugged, giving up impressing his son with anything magical; clearly, it didn't work. They started walking.

There were already a few other people up and about, several of whom noticed them. This turned out to be because they knew James -- the only reason Harry could think of for anyone noticing at all -- and they paid Harry no attention.

It didn't really surprise Harry that his father wouldn't introduce him to the other adults. Sirius had never introduced him to _anyone_, besides when he'd first met Remus. And, though he knew it wasn't really proper manners, he was relieved to see that James and Sirius were alike in this small way, because it made him feel better about being away from his godfather.

Harry was not aware that none of the people would have needed an introduction to know who he was, if they'd realized he was there. He was, after all, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, and the son of James Potter. Looking so much like his father, a mistake about his identity would have been almost impossible to make. But, just as he had since he'd started walking, Harry displayed a remarkable ability to go undetected, even when standing right in front of a person. James did not seem to notice this strangeness about his son.

The time they spent in the robes shop was quite uneventful. Aside from Madam Malkin herself saying that she was very pleased indeed to finally meet Harry, and Harry being stuck unpleasantly with pins by the absurdly nervous seamswitch several times, absolutely nothing interesting happened.

Then James guided Harry down the slightly more crowded street, to the only place they could purchase his wand; Ollivander's.

For some reason, seeing the narrow, shabby shop made Harry grin. He spoke the words on the sign, Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. When he saw the single wand on the faded purple cushion in the window, he wanted to laugh, but Harry couldn't have explained why this was. James, seeing the odd expression on his son's face, looked amused.

As they entered, a bell rang somewhere, and sent shivers up Harry's spine. He had the weirdest feeling he'd done all this before.

James motioned for Harry to take a seat on the on the only piece of furniture in the tiny shop, a spindly chair. Harry did, with his father standing at his elbow, and began to look around more carefully.

The atmosphere in the shop seemed to Harry like that of a very strict library, and he'd been in enough of those to know what they felt like. He examined the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling, as he liked to do with books at libraries.

For some reason, the back of his neck prickled; though he'd not been exposed to much of it in his short lifetime, Harry thought the very dust and silence in the shop seemed to tingle with some secret magic.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice. Harry would have jumped, but for some reason he'd been expecting this sound. James didn't jump, either. He smiled broadly when he saw how unfazed Harry was by the sudden appearance of the shop's proprieter, an old man who was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining lik moons through the gloom.

Harry stood up.

"Hello," said Harry awkwardly, using English although he got the feeling this was one of the few people he'd ever met who would understand if he started speaking in Latin.

"Ah, yes," said the man. "Yes, yes. I hoped I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter." It wasn't a question, and Harry wondered how the man had known. "You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."

James smothered a chuckle while Harry stared. Mr Ollivander moved closer to Harry. Harry wished he would blink, as he was beginning to think those silvery eyes were a bit creepy.

"Your father, on the other hand," continued Mr Ollivander with a brief glance at James, "favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it -- it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course."

"Can't you give him lessons while you're finding his wand?" James queried, his voice laced with amusement.

Mr Ollivander nodded obligingly. Out of his pocket he pulled a long tape measure with silver markings. "Well, now -- Mr Potter. Let me see. Which is your wand arm?"

"Right," replied Harry very crisply, without hesitation. James gave him a bemused look but didn't comment.

"Hold out your arm -- yes, that's it." Mr Ollivander smiled, as Harry complied before he'd even finished his request. He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, knee to armpit, shoulder to floor and round his head. As he measured, he said, "Every Ollivander wand has a core of powerful magical substance, Mr Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."

For some reason, Harry was not surprised when he suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was measuring between his nostrils, was doing this on its own. Mr Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes.

"That will do," he said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. Harry grinned at it, and it twitched a little.

"Right then, Mr Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave."

Harry took the wand and (feeling dissatisfied) waved it around a bit, but Mr Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.

"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try --"

Harry tried -- but he had hardly raised the wand when it, too, was snatched back by Mr Ollivander.

"No, no -- here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out."

Harry tried, and tried. He had no idea what Mr Ollivander was waiting for. The pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair, but the more wands Mr Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the happier he seemed to become.

Harry, for his part, was growing vaguely annoyed. He listened with half an ear to Mr Ollivander's mutterings about tricky customers, and looked around the boxes of untried wands.

For some reason, as his eyes landed on a particular one, he smiled grimly. He cut the wandmaker off in mid-sentence, which was quite rude, and said, "How about that one?"

He gestured toward the one he meant, which wasn't very far away from him. Mr Ollivander's eyes narrowed a little. "I wonder, now -- yes, why not -- unusual combination -- holly and phoneix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised the wand above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of violently gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on the walls. James whooped and clapped approvingly and Mr Ollivander cried, "Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well... how curious... how very curious."

He put Harry's wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering, "Curious... curious..."

James, who seemed to have quite a lot of experience with this sort of behavior rolled his eyes. "Sorry," he said, not sounding exactly as if he meant it, "but _what's_ curious?"

Before Mr Ollivander replied, he fixed Harry with his pale stare. "I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather -- just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother -- why, its brother tried to kill you."

James tensed. His eyes, speculative, darted to his son. Harry swallowed, more because of the look his father was giving him, than what he'd just learned from Mr Ollivander.

"Yes, thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember... I think we must expect great things from you, Mr Potter... After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things -- terrible, yes, but great."

Harry found himself wanting to shiver, but suppressed the urge. "Who is He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" he asked, finding himself surprisingly curious.

Ollivander stared unblinkingly at him, startled, and then said, "You-Know-Who, of course."

"But I don't know who!" protested Harry, slightly annoyed. He really wasn't sure he liked Mr Ollivander too much. "That's why I asked."

James fought back a snicker that he knew was highly inappropriate. He put his hands on Harry's shoulders, promisingly solemnly, "I'll explain it when we get home, son. I promise."

Harry shot him a rather dirty look. "Fine, then." He turned away and began scrutinizing the (now rather messy) shop.

Chuckling, James produced a money pouch and paid seven gold coins for Harry's wand. Mr Ollivander bowed to them, which seemed to be an indication they were supposed to leave.

Harry hesitated.

Though he had a wand now, he felt that he couldn't leave yet. His eyes kept roaming the store, as if he were searching for something. He spotted a box back in a corner, one that didn't stand out at all, and knew he'd found it -- what, he wasn't sure, but it had been found.

"Please, sir," Harry called quickly, as his father was about to lead him from the shop. Harry looked up at him, pleadingly. "Please, can I see that wand, there, in the corner?"

He pointed, and Mr Ollivander's strange eyes narrowed slightly, while James looked surprised.

"Please?" pressed Harry.

"Harry, you only need one wand. It's not pro--" he started to say sternly, but with a touch of confusion.

Mr Ollivander interrupted him, saying, "No, wait. If Mr Potter thinks... Hm, yes, he'd better try it."

The box was brought out quickly, and the wand placed in Harry's hand. Immediately, sparks shot out, as they had with the wand he'd already purchased.

James gaped. "But that's not--"

"Hmm." Mr Ollivander was regarding Harry closely, and he seemed quite pleased. "Pine and unicorn hair, fourteen inches. An unusual wand. Very powerful, for someone so young. How _interesting_."

"What does that mean?" queried Harry blankly.

"It means, Mr Potter, that you have a second wand."

Harry frowned. This man exasperated him like he couldn't believe. "But, that's not normal, is it?" he pressed.

Mr Ollivander shook his head. "Indeed not. I believe it would be wise if you didn't mention this one to anyone else."

"Don't worry," said James sternly, finding his voice at last "We won't."

This wand too was put back in its box, wrapped in brown paper and handed back to Harry. However, James snatched it from his son's hand and stuffed it in a pocket of his robes. Harry looked at him curiously, and he smiled reassuringly.

Harry frowned.

Another seven gold coins were passed to Mr Ollivander, and with several more bows on the part of the wandmaker, the Potters quickly left the store.

On their way back down the street to the Leaky Cauldron, James stopped them. He turned Harry to face him, and squated down so he was on the eye level with his son.

"Sorry about that," he said quietly, apparently keeping his voice low so that none of the passersby could hear him. "I'll give you... the other one... when we get home."

"Fine," muttered Harry.

He was back to looking cold, and a little sulky; James winced. "Tell you what," he said suddenly, standing up. "How about I get you a pet? You're allowed one at school, you know?"

Harry blinked. He already _had_ a pet (sort of). But, he didn't exactly want to mention that, and anyway... He was overwhelmed with a strong desire for something, after listening to his father's words, and couldn't help voicing them. "... I want an owl."

"Excellent." James grinned. He didn't stop to wonder when Harry had figured out that wizards used owls. "I would have said the same thing."


	6. Chapter Five

**Disclaimer:** Please see Chapter Zero.

**Author's Notes:** This chapter is longish, to go with the longish wait. Poor, to go with my writing skills. Also, as a warning, this is probably going to contain only strictly canon ships, as most of what happens is a very firm _reflection_ of canon. Sorry, if that bothers some people. :-/

Thank you all for your reviews; I truly appreciate your feedback and constructive criticism. It helps me as I try to improve my writing.

Without further ado, I ask you to once again please suspend your sense of reality, and send you forth to the next chapter!

**o.o.o.o**

**1 September, 1991**

**10:49 AM**

Harry's parents took him to King's Cross as early as they could -- James had to go to work, and Lily really didn't want Remus watching the girls for very long. They arrived, and had Harry settled, with twenty minutes to spare. Harry had picked the rear compartment, he wasn't sure why, while his father laughingly explained that he and Sirius had always sat at the end of the train, too.

As soon as his trunk was loaded and he'd sat down, Lily kissed her son's cheek. "I'll see you at Christmas, all right, Harry?" she said rather sadly. He nodded, and she smiled. "I'll make sure the girls write you."

Harry nodded again; he'd decided that he liked his sisters, despite everything. It wasn't the girls' fault his parents hadn't told him about them.

"I'll write to them, too," he volunteered casually, and turned his head away.

He said nothing about writing his parents. Clearly, it was deliberate.

The corner's of Lily's mouth tightened. She began, "You remember how to use He--"

"I know how to use my owl, Mum," Harry assured her. On the seat next to him, Hedwig hooted softly. Lily glanced at her, and fell silent.

"Well, son, we'll see you for Christmas," stated James. The look on his face, slightly militant, suggested that he expected his son to contradict him. When Harry only nodded, James managed a smile and added, "We'll be waiting for you--"

"Sirius is picking me up," declared Harry, firmly. He was still looking out the window.

James and Lily glanced at each other. "Son--"

"He promised!" snapped Harry, facing them suddenly. His face was tight and pale. "He _promised_!"

No wonder Sirius had seemed guilty when he'd left their house the day before.

Seeing the tenseness on her son's face, though she could no make out any identifiable emotion, Lily recoiled. "Yes, dear," she said quickly, because James, looking angry, seemed about to say something else. "Sirius can pick you up."

James, a muscle in his jaw working, nodded his acquiescence. "_Sirius_ can pick you up."

Internally, Lily winced. She'd have to think of a reason not to be around when her husband cornered his best friend. Perhaps she'd take the girls to Diagon Alley; they wouldn't need to witness a shouting match, either. Especially not one of Sirius and James's shouting matches. Ella needed new robes, anyway.

"You'd better get going," Harry said, into the heavy silence that had taken over the compartment. He glanced at his left wrist. "Dad's going to be late for work."

Trying to figure out how looking at your bare wrist told you the time, James nodded. "Right, son. Well. Have fun, and don't get caugh--"

Lily smacked the back of his head, giving him a very pointed, disapproving glare. He swallowed. "Er, that is, don't get in any trouble."

Harry smirked at his mother. His eyes had narrowed, and over all he seemed very pleased with himself. "I never get caught, Dad, don't worry."

Lily groaned.

"I love you, son," James said quickly, bending and placing a kiss on Harry's forehead, to hide the fact he was grinning.

"Thank you," said Harry, inclining his head slightly in difference.

There was no way to really take that, so James turned away. Lily took his place, repeating his actions and statement.

Again, Harry tilted his head forward and muttered, "Thank you."

Lily sighed sadly. "Don't you love us, Harry?"

Looking at them, as if slightly perplexed, Harry shrugged. "I don't know you."

He turned away again. James couldn't think of anything to say, so he left. Lily, in the same predicament, kissed her son again, and followed her husband.

°

**1 September, 1991**

**10:57 AM**

As she did every year, Ginny Weasley looked longingly up at the train that would be taking her brothers to Hogwarts. She wished she could go, too!

For some reason, her eyes drifted to the end of the train, even though she usually contented herself with staring at the scarlet steam engine. There, in what looked like it was the last compartment, she saw a black-haired boy sitting next to the window. He looked rather curious, and was staring at her family.

Their eyes met.

Ginny gasped.

Harry smiled.

°

**1 September, 1991**

**11:04 AM**

No-one tried to sit in the same compartment as Harry. He was glad of this, but not particularly surprised. People tended to avoid his presence, unless they had a real reason not to.

Unfortunately, as he wasn't disturbed, he got a little bored.

For the last few minutes before the Hogwarts Express pulled out of the station, Harry'd been staring out the window. He wasn't entirely sure what had prompted him to do it, but he'd felt somewhere deep inside him that he needed to watch the platform.

When the large family of redheads had appeared, he'd suddenly known.

His eyes were drawn first to the youngest boy, who held his attention for several moments. Then he'd gotten a good look at the young girl. She too had held his attention for awhile -- and she'd looked right at him. When she'd met his gaze, the only thing he could do was smile. For a moment he couldn't even think, and only a loud hissing from the area of his left arm had recalled him to the present.

The twins, standing by the woman who must have been their mother, were the next to attract his interest. He decided instantly that at some point, he would _have_ to make friends with them.

The last brother, the one with the Prefect's badge pinned to his robes, appeared rather uppity. Harry felt an immediate sense of pity, laced with dislike -- this was one of those people he was going to have to _fix_, he could already tell. The mother he'd smiled at, because she looked like the sort of woman one was supposed to smile at.

He'd watched the two females as the train started, and took note of the way the young girl looked, running after the train. If he put his head right up against the glass, he could see her twin brothers hanging out of one of the windows, waving at her.

The track turned, and the girl was out of sight. Feeling vaguely disappointed for some reason, Harry settled back into his seat, and waited.

After several minutes, his patience was rewarded. The door of the compartment slid open, and the youngest boy of the redheaded family came in.

"Anyone sitting there?" he asked, pointing at the seat opposite Harry. "Everywhere else is full."

Harry shook his head and the boy sat down. He glanced around the compartment and then looked quickly out of the window. He seemed uncomfortable. Harry saw he had a black mark on his nose; possibly the dirt Harry had heard his mother complaining about.

"Hey, Ron."

The twins had followed their brother. Harry knew instinctively that it was to make sure Ron got settled all right, though doubtless they'd never actually say as much.

Seeing that their brother was fine, the twins grinned. "Listen, we're going down the middle of the train -- Lee's got a giant tarantula down there."

"Right," mumbled Ron.

The twins spared a glance for Harry, but finding him uninteresting, simply waved at their brother. "See you later, then, Ron."

"Bye," Ron said. The twins slid the compartment door shut behind them.

"What's your name?" asked Harry politely, after several moments of silence. He'd already figured it out, of course, but he thought he might as well ask as not.

"Ron Weasley," muttered Ron, who still looked rather uncomfortable. He managed to look at Harry straight in the face. "What's yours?"

"Harry," said Harry.

"Oh. Okay." Ron looked like he was going to let the conversation die out completely, but remembered his manners at the last moment and said, "Nice to meet you."

"And you, too," returned Harry, hiding a smile. The boy was as awkward as he'd expected. "I saw you out on the platform -- are all your family wizards?"

"Er," mumbled Ron. He seemed confused that anyone would be interested in his family. "Yeah. Mostly. I think."

Ron observed the boy sitting across from him. Harry looked a little odd; he was wearing Muggle clothes but they didn't seem to suit him, he had a weird accent, and his face was kind of blank. He seemed friendly enough, however, and he appeared to find Ron interesting.

So Ron, never really one to waste such a perfectly good opportunity when he didn't actually have to _do_ anything, asked, "What about yours?"

"I lived with Muggles," Harry said flatly. "They're all right, Muggles. Most of them, anyway. I've known a few bad ones."

This Ron found interesting. It didn't occur to him that a boy who lived with Muggles probably wouldn't know what a Muggle _was_. "I wish I'd lived with Muggles."

"No, you don't," snapped Harry, displaying real emotion for the first time since Ron had walked in. Then, he seemed to remember himself, and calmed down, adding lamely, "You wouldn't have liked it."

"Er-- All right." Ron shrugged, uncomfortable again. He really did want to talk to this boy, but he wasn't sure he could think of anything to say. He settled for bringing up his favorite subject. "What's your Quidditch team?"

Harry looked like he was about to nod, but stopped. After a second, he said, "I'm not familiar with Quidditch, sorry."

"Oh!"

With this emphatic exclamation, Harry was jolted back into his own mind. The redhead thought so loudly that Harry'd actually felt as if he were in Ron's place for a few moments there. He shook his head, not entirely pleased with the sensation; it did, however prove that things were going mostly as they should. He was only waiting for one person now.

Relaxing most of the way, he turned back to what Ron was actually saying. "... you wait, it's the best game in the world --"

And Ron was off, explaining all about the four balls and the positions of the seven players, describing famous games he'd been to with his brothers and the broomstick he'd like to get if his parents gave him the money. He was just taking Harry through the finer points of the game -- including several mentions of how well he himself hoped to be some day, with practice -- when the compartment door slid open again.

This time it wasn't a redhead. It was a girl, with lots of bushy brown hair, and rather large front teeth.

"Hello there," Harry said, a little surprised, but not much. He'd expected the girl to show up, but somehow he'd imagined she'd be leading a shy boy without a toad around -- he couldn't explain why -- and here it seemed she was on her own.

She entered the compartment slowly, and Harry saw that she really was all alone. He also saw that her slowness wasn't a result of nervousness or anything of that sort, but of a determination to take note of everything about the situation she was entering.

"Hello," she said back, her eyes sliding past the almost ordinary-looking Harry, to the flame-headed Ron. She had a voice that sounded as if it were usually bossy. "May I sit in here? I've been wandering the train looking for somewhere to be, but, well..."

Ron nodded without waiting for her to finish. Hedwig's cage was still beside Harry, so she took the seat next to Ron. Her trunk thumped slightly as she let go of it.

Harry reached over and slid the compartment door closed. They wouldn't be bothered now; no-one else was coming.

Silence descended on the group for a moment, as Ron lacked the words to say something, and Harry lacked the inclination.

"I'm Hermione Granger," declared the girl into the quiet air around them. She spoke rather officiously, now that she was seated. "Who are you?"

"I'm Ron Weasley," Ron muttered, staring at the girl with a bit of what looked like awe.

"Harry Potter," supplied Harry.

"Oh! Are you really?" asked Hermione. She seemed excited. "I know all about you, of course -- I got a few extra books for background reading, and you're in _Modern Magical History_ and _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_."

Harry arched on of his eyebrows. "Am I?"

"Yes!" said Ron, before Hermione could. Now he looked _distinctly_ awed. "You're also in _Miraculous Magical Mysteries Volume IV_."

It was Hermione's turn to look impressed. "He is?"

"Am I?" Harry repeated, though for the moment he was a bit superfluous to the conversation.

"Didn't you know?" exclaimed Ron and Hermione in unison. They exchanged sheepish looks and mumbled apologies, after which Hermione went on, "Goodness, I'd have found out everything I could if it was me."

"I wasn't very interested in improving my ego," Harry explained. He was smiling slightly. "Besides, I had no idea."

Ron goggled at him.

Hermione seemed to decide that they needed to change the subject. "Do either of you know what house you'll be in? I was going to ask around, but I haven't had the chance so far. From what I've read in _Hogwarts, A History_, I think I'd prefer Gryffindor, it sounds by far the best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn't be too bad..."

"Gryffindor?" queried Harry, raising both eyebrows this time. He turned to Ron. "What house are your brothers in?"

"Gryffindor," said Ron. Gloom seemed to be settling on him for some reason. "Mom and Dad were in it, too. I don't know what they'll say if I'm not. I don't suppose Ravenclaw _would_ be too bad, but imagine if they put me in Slytherin."

"What's wrong with Slytherin?" hissed Harry, annoyed before he could stop himself. Ron looked at him curiously. There was a slight wariness in his face.

"That's the house You-Know-Who was in," Hermione explained. "I don't think I'd much like it, either; it doesn't seem the best place, from what I've read."

"You've read right," muttered Ron.

Harry looked rather noncommittal. Inside, he felt himself not all together happy, but knew that showing it would be a bad idea. "I see."

Hermione seemed to be in her element. "The other house, Hufflepuff -- I heard it doesn't get much respect. From all the books I read, I wasn't very impressed."

"They're a bit lame," Ron agreed, as he stood up. "I'll be back in a minute, I need to find the loo."

"All right," said Hermione, though she looked a little put out that half her audience was leaving. Ron sent her a tentative smile as he disappeared.

This was good, Harry decided. He felt he had something very important to say to Hermione -- he wasn't sure why, actually -- but now would be a good time to say it.

"You know," Harry began conversationally, as soon as the door closed behind Ron, "I wouldn't go around talking about reading too many books, and learning all the course books by heart, and things like that, if I were you."

Hermione stared at him, slightly incredulous. (She also looked a little offended, but Harry ignored that.) "_What?_"

"It's not the way to go about making friends," explained Harry. "It sounds rather like you're _bragging_."

"I'm not--" Hermione started to say, defensively. She looked rather pink around the ears.

"Oh, I know," Harry assured her calmly. He smiled a little slyly. "But other people might not. You want to make more friends than just me, don't you?"

"Of course I--" snapped Hermione. She stopped on her own, however, halfway through her sentence, as something dawned on her. "... What did you say?"

"You want to make more friends than just me, don't you?" repeated Harry. He was still smiling, more widely now, as he knew he'd got through to her.

"You're my _friend_?"

"Well, of course! If you want me, that is." Harry already knew she did; she'd never had a real friend before. It hadn't been hard to figure out, as she thought even more loudly than Sirius did. Not quite as loudly as Ron, but very loudly, indeed.

"Oh. All right." Hermione smiled shyly.

Harry smiled back at her, briefly, but as soon as Ron reentered the compartment, he turned his attention to a small book he'd pulled out of his pocket.

Ron and Hermione managed to carry the conversation on their own for quite a while, even though it was mostly friendly bickering, but eventually, Hermione noticed that he was reading.

"What's that?" she asked, curious.

Ron turned and looked. "Yeah," he said. "What're you reading?"

"It's a Latin grammar book," Harry lied. Romanian would be a little on the unbelievable side, he felt. "My godfather wants me to get a classical education, even though I'm going to Hogwarts."

"Oh," said Ron, because Hermione looked too confused to say anything. (Harry imagined she was trying to adjust to someone else knowing something she didn't.) "Sounds boring."

"It's not, really," Harry said, smiling slightly. "I could teach you, if you like."

"Oh! Yes!" cried Hermione excitedly. Ron, who'd looked about to decline the suggestion, seemed to take this as a challenge, and nodded as well.

Then, because it still seemed so boring, he offered, "And I can teach you both Quidditch. Hermione's Muggleborn, so she won't know it, either."

"I'd like that," said Harry sincerely.

"I suppose I would, too," Hermione said, and Ron beamed.

With a small smile fighting its way to his face, Harry turned back to his book.

They were well out of London by this time, and they were now speeding past fields full of cows and sheep. They were quiet for a bit, Ron and Hermione watching the fields and lanes flick past.

Around a half hour later, there was a great clattering outside in the corridor and a smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door and said, "Anything off the car, dears?"

Hermione looked curious, but Ron's ears went pink and he mumbled that he'd brought sandwiches. Rising slowly to his feet, Harry went out into the corridor.

His pockets were rattling with all the gold and silver that first Sirius and then his parents had given him, for just this sort of thing, so Harry looked over the cart eager. The woman had Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, Chocolate Frogs, Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, Licorice Wands, and a number of other things that Harry didn't find the least bit strange, though he'd never seen them before in his life. Not wanting to miss anything, however, he got some of everything and paid the woman one gold Galleon and ten bronze Knuts.

Ron and Hermione stared as Harry brought it all back in to the compartment and tipped it onto the empty seat on the other side of Hedwig's cage.

"Hungry, are you?"

"Starving," said Harry, though it was something of a fib. He took a large bite out of a pumpkin pasty.

Hermione watched him and tried to pretend that she wasn't. She had some pocket money, but her parents hadn't thought to get it converted from pound notes, so she couldn't buy anything for herself. She hadn't had much for breakfast, either.

Ron had taken out a lumpy package and unwrapped it. There were four sandwiches inside. He pulled one of them apart and mumbled, "She always forgets I don't like corned beef."

"Swap you for one of these," said Harry, holding up a pasty. "Go on --"

"You don't want this, it's all dry," said Ron, uncomfortable again. "She hasn't got much time," he added quickly, "you know, with five of us."

"Go on, have a pasty," instructed Harry. "You too, Hermione."

When they both hesitated, he admonished, "I can't possibly eat it all on my own."

It turned out he didn't have to say anything else.

They enjoyed themselves the rest of the ride, sitting there together, eating their way through all Harry's pasties, cakes, and candies. Ron's sandwiches lay forgotten by all but Hermione, who'd attempted to eat one early on, as her parents were dentists and objected to sweets in general -- but she found they were dry, just as Ron had said, and she didn't like them much.

"What are these?" Hermione asked Ron eagerly, holding up a pack of Chocolate Frogs. "They're not _really_ frogs, are they?"

"No," said Ron. "But see what the card is. I'm missing Agrippa."

Harry watched in silence as Hermione's brow creased slightly. "What?"

"Oh, of course, you wouldn't know -- Chocolate Frogs have cards inside them, you know, to collect -- famous witches and wizards," explained Ron, who seemed proud that his knowledge of something was being used. "I've got about five hundred, but I haven't got Agrippa of Ptolemy."

Hermione unwrapped her Chocolate Frog and picked up the card. It showed a man's face. He wore half-moon glasses, had a long, crooked nose, and flowing silver hair, beard and mustache. Underneath the picture was the man's name.

"Oh, it's Dumbledore!" cried Hermione excitedly.

"Yeah," Ron muttered. He sat back in his seat, having leaned across to read the card over her shoulder. "I've got about a million of him -- Can I have a frog, Harry? I might get Agrippa -- thanks."

Hermione turned over her card and read it aloud. "Albus Dumbledore: Currently Headmaster of Hogwarts. Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling."

Harry kept his face in his book.

Hermione turned the card back over and saw to her mild astonishment, that Dumbledore's face had disappeared. "He's gone!" she exclaimed.

"Well, you can't expect him to hang around all day," said Ron. "He'll be back. No, I've got Morgana again and I've got about six of _her_... do you want it? You can start collecting."

As Hermione blushed slightly and accepted the card, Ron's eyes strayed to the pile of Chocolate Frogs waiting to be unwrapped.

"Help yourself," offered Harry, amusement obvious in his voice. "But in, you know, the Muggle world, people just stay put in photos."

"Do they? What, they don't move at all?" Ron sounded amazed. "_Weird!_"

This sparked a conversation between Ron and Hermione about the differences between the two worlds, which lasted almost all the way 'til they reached Hogwarts.

When the train seemed to be slowing down, they all hurried to take off their jackets and pull on their long black robes. Ron's were a bit short for him, you could see the tops of his sneakers underneath -- he explained that this was because his mother had thought to be clever, and bought them back at the start of August.

A voice echoed through the train: "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately."

Harry was still calm, but Ron looked pale under his freckles and as for Hermione, he saw, her stomach seemed to be lurching with nerves, if her fidgeting was anything to go by. They crammed their pockets with the last of the sweets and joined the crowd thronging the corridors.

The train slowed right down and finally stopped. People pushed their way toward the door and out on to a tiny, dark platform. Harry shivered in the cold night air, and gently hugged his left arm to his chest.

A lamp came bobbing over the heads of the students, and they heard a voice calling, "Firs' years! Firs' years over here! All right there, Ron?"

They looked up into the face of a very large man with what appeared to be a bushy mane, beaming over the sea of heads, and Ron grinned widely. "Hullo, Hagrid."

"C'mon, follow me -- any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now! Firs' years follow me!"

Slipping and stumbling, they followed Hagrid down what seemed to be a steep, narrow path. It was so dark on either side of them that Harry was sure there must be thick trees there. Nobody spoke much.

"Yeh'll get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec," Hagrid called over his shoulder, "jus' round this bend here."

There was a loud "Ooooooh!"

The narrow path had opened suddenly onto the edge of a great black lake. Perched atop a high mountain on the other side, it's windows sparkling in the starry sky, was a vast castle with many turrets and towers.

Harry felt himself to be rather unimpressed, but Hermione and Ron enjoyed the sight immensely.

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, pointing to a fleet of little boats sitting in the water by the shore. Harry, Ron and Hermione were followed to their boat by a pudgy, shy-looking boy that Ron greeted as Neville.

"Everyone in?" shouted Hagrid, who had a boat to himself. "Right then -- FORWARD!"

And the fleet of little boats moved off all at once, gliding across the lake, which was as smooth as glass. Everyone was silent, staring up at the great castle overhead -- except Harry, who was staring at Neville narrowly.

This was another person he'd be having to fix, though not as much as he might have expected. Thank heaven for small favors.

"Heads down!" yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached the cliff; they all bent their heads and the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right underneath the castle, until they reached a kind of underground harbor, where they clambered out onto rocks and pebbles.

They clambered up a passageway in the rock after Hagrid's lamp, coming out at last onto smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle. They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the huge, oak front door.

"Everyone here?" Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the castle door.

The door swung open at once. A tall, black-haired witch in emerald-green robes stood there. She had a very stern face and Harry's first thought was that this was not someone to cross.

"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," said Hagrid.

"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."

She pulled the door wide. The entrance hall was so big you could have almost fit the whole of Harry's parents' house in it. The stone walls were lit with flaming torches, the ceiling was too high to make out, and a magnificent marble staircase facing them led to the upper floors.

They followed Professor McGonagall across the flagged stone floor. Harry could hear the drone of hundreds of voices from a doorway to the right -- the rest of the school would already be waiting in the Great Hall -- but Professor McGonagall showed the first years into a small, empty chamber off the hall. They crowded in, standing rather closer together than they would usually have done, peering about nervously.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses..."

What followed was an explanation of the houses and why they mattered that Harry blocked out completely, as he was sure he didn't need to know any of it.

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting."

Her eyes lingered for a moment on Neville's cloak, which was fastened under his left ear, and on Ron's smudged nose. Harry would have tried to flatten his hair, but he knew it was pointless.

"I shall return when we are ready for you," said Professor McGonagall. "Please wait quietly."

She left the chamber. Harry heard Ron swallow.

"How exactly do they sort us into houses?" asked Neville, who'd followed them over to the corner they were huddled in.

Ron answered him. "Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking."

For a moment, Harry felt like laughing at such absurdity. He looked around, to see how everyone else was taking things, and saw that they all looked terrified. No one was talking much, not even Hermione, who Harry knew was just dying to start whispering very fast about all the spells she'd learned and wondering which one she'd need. He was glad she was listening to his advice and holding it in, though.

What a miserable looking group of children.

"They put a hat on your head," Harry said into the relative silence, soothingly. "And the hat decides which house you'll be in. That's it."

Almost all of the other first years gaped at him.

"I thought you said you grew up with Muggles!" said Ron.

At the same time, Neville demanded, "How do you know that?"

"My godfather told me," Harry answered calmly. He was grinning slightly. "And my godfather doesn't dare lie to me, so I know it's true. You can all relax."

Before anyone could say anything else, Professor McGonagall returned. "Form a line," she told the first years in a sharp voice, "and follow me."

Feeling oddly as though he'd done all of this before -- only last time his legs had seemed to be made out of lead -- Harry, Ron, Hermione and Neville fell in at the end of the line. They walked out of the chamber, back across the hall, and through a pair of double doors into the Great Hall.

The strange, splendid place was lit by thousands and thousands of candles that were floating in midair over four long tables, where the rest of the students were sitting. These tables were laid with glittering golden plates and goblets. At the top of the hall was another long table where the teachers were sitting. Professor McGonagall led the first years up here, so that they came to a halt in a line facing the other students, with the teachers behind them. The hundreds of faces staring at them looked like pale lanterns in the flickering candlelight. Dotted here and there among the students were spots of shining misty silver; ghosts, Harry knew.

Mainly to avoid all the staring eyes, even though not a single one seemed to be looking at _him_, Harry looked upward and saw a velvety black ceiling dotted with stars. He heard Hermione whisper helpfully, "It's bewitched to look like the sky outside, Harry. I read about it in _Hogwarts, A History_."

It was almost hard to believe there was a ceiling there at all, and that the Great Hall didn't simply open up on the heavens.

Harry didn't bother looking down again as Professor McGonagall silently placed a four-legged stool in front of the first years. On top of the stool she put a pointed wizard's hat. This hat was patched and frayed and extremely dirty.

Most of the first years shot incredulous glances at Harry, thinking very loudly that they wondered how he'd _really_ known.

After a few seconds of silence, the hat twitched. A rip near the brim opened wide like a mouth. The hat began to sing; Harry knew this song -- he could have sung along word for word -- and so didn't listen.

The whole hall burst into applause as the hat finish its song. It bowed to each of the four tables and then became quite still again.

"So you were right," Ron whispered to Harry, sounding annoyed. "I'll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling a troll."

Harry smiled.

Professor McGonagall stepped forward holding a long roll of parchment. "When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," she said. "Abbott, Hannah!"

A pink-faced girl with a blond ponytail stumbled out of line, put on the hat, which fell right down over her eyes, and sat down. A moment's pause --

"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the hat.

The table on the right cheered and clapped as Hannah went to sit down at the Hufflepuff table. Harry saw one of the ghosts waving merrily at her.

Harry didn't really pay any attention to the rest of the ceremony (it bored him immensely, as he found he knew where everyone was going to end up already), until Hermione's name was called.

"Granger, Hermione!"

She almost ran to the stool and jammed the hat eagerly on her head.

"GRYFFINDOR!" shouted the hat. Ron beamed.

Harry smiled slightly, even though he'd known that was going to happen.

When Neville Longbottom, the shy boy who'd shared their boat, was called, he nearly fell over on his way to the stool. The hat took what was almost a long time to decide with Neville. When it finally shouted, "GRYFFINDOR," Neville narrowly remembered to set it back on the stool before he ran off to sit down.

A blond boy swaggered forward as his name was called and looked very pleased with himself when the hat barely had to touch his head before it screamed, "SLYTHERIN!" (Harry knew the minute he saw him that he wasn't going to like this boy, but maybe he would have to work on him, anyway.)

There weren't many people left now.

Harry waiting patiently, until at last McGonagall called, "Potter, Harry!"

As Harry stepped forward, whispers suddenly broke out like little hissing fires all over the hall.

"_Potter_, did she say?"

"_The_ Harry Potter?"

"I thought he disappeared!"

The last thing Harry saw before the hat dropped over his eyes was the hall full of people craning to get a good look at him. Next second he was looking at the black inside of the hat. He waited some more.

"Hmm," said a small voice in his ear. "Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind, either. There's talent, oh my goodness, yes -- and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting... So where shall I put you?"

Harry kept his thoughts perfectly blank. The hat just had to look a little further, and then it would know.

"... Oh dear me," said the small voice. "I wonder how I didn't see this right off. Well then, since you're determined, I'd better go along, and -- GRYFFINDOR!"

Harry heard the hat shout the last word to the whole hall, and had to fight back an exceptionally smug smirk. He took the hat off and walked toward the Gryffindor table. He noticed that he was getting the loudest cheer yet, but ignored it. Ron's twin brothers yelled, "We got Potter! We got Potter!"

Harry sat down opposite Hermione, next to Neville, and waited for Ron to join them. When he did, they would eat, and the others would be taken up to Gryffindor Tower. Harry himself, he suspected, would be summoned to the Headmaster's office.

... after all, Sirius and Remus had to have been writing those reports to _somebody_ for all those years.


	7. Chapter Six

**Disclaimer:** Please see Chapter Zero.

**Author's Notes:** Nothing really to say about this chapter. Sorry it took so long to get out, though. Hopefully, the next chapter will be posted within the next week or so.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed and didn't recieve a private reply, and to those who've added this story to their C2, favorites or alerts lists. It always makes my chest feel warm and fuzzy :D.

**o.o.o.o**

**1 September, 1991**

**9:15 PM**

Harry Potter was correct. He was not surprised to realize that he was correct, because he was almost invariably so -- in fact, he would have been astounded to have it turn out that he was mistaken about anything. So, at the present moment, Harry was standing in front of Dumbledore's desk, feeling unsurprised and rather pleased with himself, and _not_ smiling. As he stared at the venerable headmaster, he'd discovered that, for the first time, he did know what to think or how to feel about a person.

His instincts, which usually served him so well, were conflicted; on the one hand he experienced a fiercely loyal surge of respect, admiration and love, and on the other was a deeply resentful sense of abandonment and anger. These conflicted signals confused him, and left him unsure whether or not he could trust this man. He'd decided immediately to be very, very cautious.

Besides, both his father and Sirius tended to go a bit cross-eyed and grim when Dumbledore's name was mentioned. He wasn't entirely sure how to take that, either.

"Well now, Harry," said Dumbledore, in a very genial voice that made Harry want to grin. He didn't, though, and the professor added, "It's good to see you again."

"Yes, sir," Harry replied automatically, even though he couldn't remember ever having met the man. He suppressed a grimace, anyway.

"I must say, you've grown rather bigger," Dumbledore went on, his eyes twinkling.

"That usually happens, sir," said Harry, though if he'd had his own way he wouldn't have responded at all; it was a silly statement to have made to an eleven-year-old boy.

Dumbledore smiled. There was a knowing tone in his voice as he said, "Indeed. You know, Harry, I expect you'll be quite the student here."

"You would know, sir." Harry's face was completely blank; he hadn't expected the old man to bring the subject up so abruptly or so early in their interview. He cursed himself inwardly, reflecting that Dumbledore thought very quietly indeed. Which was all right, since Harry had been able to think silently since he turned two.

Dumbledore's smile had faded fractionally, and Harry knew he'd startled the old man with the confident tone in his voice.

"Perhaps," allowed Dumbledore, slowly.

Harry was under more careful scrutiny now. He felt goose flesh up his arms, and his spine stiffened.

"Sir, I'm really very tired," he announced, suddenly eager to be away from the Headmaster. His words included a subtle, gentle suggestion that he be dismissed and sent to bed right away.

Instead of responding favorably to the coaxing -- a reaction which Harry hadn't really expected, to be honest -- Dumbledore abruptly let his smile fall entirely. "I expect you are. You've been up for quite some time, haven't you?"

"I've been up longer, sir," said Harry, thinking of the time when he was seven and Sirius had woken him at three in the morning, because they'd needed to reach Italy as quickly as they could, for some reason Sirius had never told him. Hadn't needed to tell him, really, because Harry paid attention to the news.

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. "Indeed. Do you travel much, Harry?"

"Sometimes, sir," said Harry, wanting to roll his eyes at the stupidity of asking a question one already knew the answer to. Besides that, their conversation seemed to be jumping around quite a lot, particularly if one ignored the tense, prowling undertones and insinuations behind everything that was being said. A spectator would probably have thought they'd both lost their minds.

"You might find spending a school year at Hogwarts a relief, then," Dumbledore suggested, his tone imply that he didn't doubt this himself.

"We'll see," answered Harry with a dry smile, somehow managing to convey, through his politeness, the implication that if he _didn't_ find it a relief, he certainly wouldn't be staying. He saw the line of Dumbledore's shoulder's tighten slightly, and added for good measure, "I've never attended a school before."

"Really."

"I might have difficulty adjusting." The possibility, of course, was laughable; Harry could adapt himself to any situation or location, and besides that, he had _work_ to do here, he could tell already. Something about the way he said it, however, managed to send the proper warning to the Headmaster.

"I would advise that you don't," Dumbledore returned coolly. His gaze narrowed on Harry. "You've had unusual advantages in life already, Harry."

"And disadvantages, sir," countered Harry, managing with a little difficulty to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Golden half-moon spectacles seemed to slip down the long, crooked nose just slightly. Harry changed the subject, "But my education, at least, has been thorough."

He'd just given Dumbledore the perfect opening, and they both knew it.

"I see." The accusation in Harry's voice must not have sat well with the old man, because he turned right around and changed the subject yet again, "I believe you've spent much time on the Continent, is that right?"

Harry nodded slightly, once. His theory had just proven itself, and he hadn't even had to force anything from the professor; he felt generous. So he said, "It is, sir."

"How many languages do you speak, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, with absolutely no curiosity, because they both knew he already knew, or thought he did.

Harry decided that, no matter how wise he thought caution was, lying to this man could be a bad idea. Better to avoid the prickly situations that might possibly arrive if he tried it. "Nine, sir," he answered truthfully.

"I see," Dumbledore said again. He did see; his eyebrows had both lifted an eighth of an inch. "Which languages would those be?"

At least he hadn't asked Harry for a list of the languages he intended to _learn_. Harry didn't think they had the time for that, even if he did trim it down to just the ones he wanted to master before his eighteenth birthday. Quite a few of them were the languages of magical creatures. For now, of course, he stuck to the Muggle ones.

"English, Russian, French, German, Spanish, Italian, Swedish, Latin, and Bulgarian, sir," stated Harry smoothly, waiting for the last one to sink in and the old man's surprise to show. He wasn't disappointed.

Dumbledore's pale eyes widened slightly, suddenly. "Bulgarian?" he repeated.

Harry nodded shortly. "Yes, sir."

"Where did you learn Bulgarian?" Dumbledore demanded, leaning forward a little.

"I don't really feel like answering that," Harry hedged, stiffening imperceptibly. Under other circumstances he wouldn't at all have minded answering, but Dumbledore's coaxing tone had set his teeth on edge, with that last question especially.

"Harry--" Dumbledore began, a slightly patronizing air seeping into his voice, which was even worse than the coaxing.

Harry's recognizable blank expression abruptly fell into place on his face, and he took a step away from the Headmaster's desk, clasping his hands behind his back and standing up just a touch straighter. No-one spoke to him like that, not anymore; they knew better. However, he reflected, he hadn't had a chance to teach Dumbledore any such thing, and therefore leniency was required, to some degree.

But that didn't mean he could just let the old man _get away_ with it, either.

Harry cleared his throat, and his mind. Boldly, he offered, "Might I suggest, sir, that you ask my teachers that?"

Supremely serene still, Dumbledore half-smiled. "While the Hogwarts staff is exceptional, Harry, I hardly expect you'll be confiding in them--"

"I was speaking, sir, of my _other_ teachers. Sirius Black and Remus Lupin." It was Harry's turn to smile, as Dumbledore's eyes widened again. "I believe you know them. In fact, you'll probably be seeing them soon, won't you? To check firsthand on my progress."

For several long moments, neither man or boy said anything. They stared at each other, their eyes filled with sudden wariness and abject confidence, respectively.

"I think, Harry," Dumbledore began slowly, at length, "that perhaps I shouldn't keep you up any longer. Why don't you run along to bed?"

"Yes, sir," replied Harry, turning on his heel and leaving the room. He didn't bother mentioning that he had absolutely no intention of going to sleep for at least another hour; he had two more chapters of his Romanian primer to cover.

As the door swung shut behind the new, green-eyed student, it occurred to Dumbledore that no-one had had a chance to show Harry the way to Gryffindor Tower.

°

**1 September, 1991**

**9:57 PM**

As he absently walked up to Gryffindor Tower, Harry considered the man whose presence he'd just left. He didn't like not having a fix on a person's personality, and the Headmaster seemed as if he'd prove to be a hard man to pin down. He remembered the speech Professor Dumbledore had given after the feast had come to an end, before he'd sent McGonagall to intercept Harry and take him to his office.

Dumbledore had gotten to his feet for the second time just after the desserts had disappeared from the golden serving platters. The hall had, obligingly, fallen silent.

"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."

Dumbledore's twinkling eyes had flashed in the direction of the Weasley twins, who'd offered him unrepentant grins.

"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors."

Harry had noticed, without even really trying, that quite a few of the students shifted uncomfortably in their seats at this. Dumbledore had just continued as if he hadn't noticed. "Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their House teams should contact Madam Hooch.

"And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

A flood of information had suddenly rushed through Harry's head, and he had abruptly known everything he might ever have wanted to about that corridor and why it was blocked off. He'd smiled, and Dumbledore's piercing blue eyes had settled on him with a stern look.

He'd concluded his speech by calling them all to join in singing the school song. But Harry, with his mind so alive, hadn't paid attention any longer, to the song or the Headmaster.

And now he wished he had.

°

**2 September, 1991**

**9:02 AM**

On the first day of classes, Harry woke before his new friends. Several hours before them, actually, and that was how long he'd had to wait for them in the Common Room. He didn't really mind, as it gave him a chance to catch up on his work.

It was Ron who'd come down first, by some miracle that Harry thought he had a lot to do with, and after heaving a huge sigh, sat himself in the chair across from Harry's.

"So," Harry began, glancing up from the copy of _Fundamental Latin: A Beginner's Guide_ he'd dug out of his trunk. "Do we wait for Hermione, or go down to breakfast now?"

Staring into the redhead's eyes, Harry knew what he was going to say before he said it. (That was happening a lot, lately.)

"Well... Er." Ron stumbled ungracefully to a halt. He cleared his throat loudly. "Wait for her, I suppose."

Harry nodded. "All right, then," he said, and went back to preparing for the Latin lesson he planned to give the other two later that afternoon. It was tedious, going over things he'd mastered more than five years ago. Lucky for him he liked Latin.

Ron fidgeted, and glanced once or twice at Harry's scar. When Harry looked up again and raised his eyebrows questioningly, he looked away.

"What?" prodded Harry.

"Hermione-- what do you think of her?"

Although he wanted to smile smugly, Harry simply shrugged. "She's okay, I guess. What do you think?"

"Yeah," murmured Ron, looking tremendously relieved. "Yeah, I agree. Hermione's all right. Er, for a girl."

"For a _girl_?" demanded Hermione, who'd come up behind Ron in time to catch the tail end of his little speech, and now stood with her hands on her hips. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Ron whipped around and stared at her, his eyes wide. His ears and the back of his neck going pink, he stammered, "Er--"

"Really, Hermione," Harry exclaimed, snapping his Latin book shut with more force than necessary and calling their attention away from each other. "It doesn't mean anything. Ron was just saying how everyone knows that girls are better than boys.-- Isn't that right, Ron?"

Ron looked as if he was caught between a rock and a hard place. Clearly it had never occurred to him that girls were any such thing, but he was aware enough of the danger that he managed to nod his head stiffly. "Yeah. Of course," he muttered, a contorted expression on his face that Hermione thankfully couldn't see.

"Ah." Looking mollified, Hermione beamed at Ron, and said, "Were you boys waiting for me?"

"Yes," replied Harry, gathering his books and standing. "Ron said we ought to."

"Did you?" Hermione asked, bestowing another glance of approval on the other boy. "That was very considerate of you, Ron."

Ron, his face beet red, shot Harry a glare that didn't faze him at all.

Harry smiled at both of them. "Shall we?"

They both nodded, and he led them out of the Common Room and down to the Great Hall, without getting them lost a single time.

°

**2 September, 1991**

**11:14 AM**

By sheer coincidence, Sirius and Remus both arrived a few minutes early for their appointment with the Hogwarts Headmaster.

Dumbledore ushered the two men into the room. He watched as they took seats across from his desk. He settled more deeply into his comfortable chair. He folded his hands serenely as they began to shift nervously. He smiled.

Then he demanded, "... Which one of you taught Harry to speak Bulgarian?"

"What?" asked Sirius and Remus in unison, as innocently as they could. Both were imagining the scene that must have occurred when Dumbledore had discovered that particular ability of Harry's.

"That wasn't on the list," Dumbledore reminded them, his voice curious and low. It seemed very non-threatening, but of course both other men knew better than to believe any such thing. "And neither of you mentioned it. Who taught it to him?"

"Neither of us, sir," Remus admitted, reluctantly. "We didn't even know he _could_ speak it, until we were in the airport on our way back. He interrupted some Bulgarian's fight with Customs Security, if you must know," he added, seeing all the questions lighting in the Headmaster's eyes.

"I see." Dumbledore sat back, folding his hands over his stomach, and smiled suddenly. "Indeed."

"If you don't mind us asking," said Sirius, with noticeable sarcasm, "might you happen to have any theories about this?"

"I do, as a matter of fact." Dumbledore smiled again. "If I'm right about where Harry's powers come from -- and I think I am -- then it appears that the _other Harry_ had a reason to know Bulgarian. This, I hardly need add, is _very_ interesting."

He wouldn't explain further, much to the frustration of both Sirius and Remus.

°

**2 September, 1991**

**11:30 AM**

"There, look."

"Where?"

"Next to the tall redhead and the girl with the bushy hair."

"Wearing the glasses?"

"Did you see his face?"

"Did you see his scar?"

Unfortunately for Ron and Hermione, whispers followed their trio, and Harry in particular, from the moment they left the Gryffindor Tower. He ignored them, but the other two found it more difficult. Harry could have stopped the whispers altogether, but he wanted Ron and Hermione to learn, because he wouldn't always be around to divert attention.

So he let the other students stare.

People lining up outside classrooms stood on tiptoe to get a look at him, or doubled back to pass him in the corridors again, staring. Hermione and Ron wished they wouldn't, because they were trying to concentrate on finding their way to class -- they needn't have bothered, of course, because Harry never got lost, though naturally they didn't realize this at first.

There were a hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts: wide, sweeping ones; narrow, rickety ones; some that led somewhere different on a Friday; some with a vanishing step halfway up that you had to remember (and Harry never forgot) to jump. Then there were doors that wouldn't open unless you asked politely, or tickled them in exactly the right place, and doors that weren't really doors at all, but solid walls just pretending. It was also very hard to remember where anything was, because it all seemed to move around a lot. The people in the portraits kept going to visit one another, and Ron even said that he was sure the coats of armor could walk.

The ghosts didn't help, either. It was always a nasty shock when one of them glided suddenly through a door you were trying to open. Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost, was always happy to point new Gryffindors in the right direction, but Peeves the Poltergeist was worth two locked doors and a trick staircase if you met him when you were late for class. He would drop waste paper baskets on your head, pull rugs from under your feet, pelt you with bits of chalk, or sneak up behind you, invisible, grab your nose, and screech, "GOT YOUR CONK!"

Harry had a knack for avoiding Peeves, though.

Even worse than Peeves, if that was possible, was the caretaker, Argus Filch. Apart from being generally nasty, he owned a cat called Mrs. Norris, a scrawny, dust-colored creature with bulging, lamp-like eyes just like Filch's. She patrolled the corridors alone. Break a rule in front of her, put just one toe out of line, and she'd whisk off for Filch, who'd appear, wheezing, two seconds later. Filch knew the secret passageways of the school better than anyone (except Harry and perhaps the Weasley twins) and could pop up as suddenly as any of the ghosts. The students all hated him, and it was the dearest ambition of many to give Mrs. Norris a good kick.

Harry had a knack for avoiding Filch, as well. In fact, if Ron and Hermione thought about it, Harry seemed to have a knack for avoiding anything they might not have wanted to run into.

But even when you managed to find them (and with Harry's help, Ron and Hermione always did), there were the classes themselves. There was a lot more to magic, as the students quickly found out, than waving your wand and saying a few funny words.

They had to study the night skies through their telescopes every Wednesday at midnight and learn the names of different stars and the movements of the planets -- several times Harry found himself in intense discussions with the professor about how different the sky looked from various countries across Europe, and what astronomical advantages could be gained from practicing Astronomy in certain places instead of others. Three times a week they went out to the greenhouses behind the castle to study Herbology, with a dumpy little witch called Professor Sprout, where they learned how to take care of all the strange plants and fungi, and found out what they were used for -- their second lesson, Harry got in an argument with Sprout regarding the use of a specific plant's secretions to enhance natural vision for extend periods (a highly experimental procedure still in the developmental stage), and whether it actually worked; Harry insisted it didn't, while she was firmly convinced it would.

Easily the most boring class was History of Magic, which was the only one taught by a ghost. Professor Binns had been very old indeed when he had fallen asleep in front of the staff room fire and got up the next morning to teach, leaving his body behind him. Binns droned on and on while they scribbled down names and dates, and got Emeric the Evil and Uric the Oddball mixed up. This class Harry didn't bother to pay attention to, instead burying his nose in a highly interesting explanation of Mandarin he'd found by accident in the Hogwarts Library, or else the Romanian primer he seemed to take everywhere with him and still insisted was a book on Latin.

Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was a tiny little wizard who had to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk. At the start of their first class he took the roll call, and when he reached Harry's name he gave an excited squeak and toppled out of sight -- this was remarkably similar to his reaction when Harry quizzed him intently on the _theory_ behind the first charm he tried to teach them.

Professor McGonagall was again different. Harry had been quite right to think she wasn't a teacher to cross. Strict and clever, she gave them a talking-to the moment they sat down in her first class; Harry knew exactly what she was going to say before she said it.

"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she said. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."

Then she changed her desk into a pig and back again. They were all very impressed by this (except Harry) and couldn't wait to get started (including Harry), but soon realized they weren't going to be changing the furniture into animals for a long time. After taking a lot of complicated notes, they were each given a match and started trying to turn it into a needle. By the end of the lesson, only two people had succeeded in making any difference in their matches; Hermione's had gone all silver and pointy, and Professor McGonagall showed the class while giving Hermione a rare smile. It was a moment or two after this that McGonagall, as well as the rest of the class, realized that Harry's had actually become a needle, completely.

The class everyone had really been looking forward to was Defense Against the Dark Arts, but Professor Quirrell's lessons turned out to be a bit of a joke. His classroom smelled strongly of garlic, which everyone said was to ward off a vampire he'd met in Romania and was afraid would be coming back to get him one of these days. Quirrell himself was a pale, nervous young man, with one eye that twitched constantly, who wore a very ugly purple turban. The turban, he told them, had been given to him by an African prince as a thank-you for getting rid of a troublesome zombie, but they weren't sure they believed this story. For one thing, when Seamus Finnigan asked eagerly to hear how Quirrell had fought of the zombie, Quirrell went pink and started talking about the weather; for another, they had noticed that a funny smell hung around the turban, and the Weasley twins insisted that it was stuffed full of garlic as well, so that Quirrell was protected wherever he went. Harry, for his part, did not like Quirrell; he avoided talking to the professor whenever possible, and felt himself growing peculiarly angry whenever he looked at the turban for too long. Despite this, he found himself answering more of the questions his classmates put to Quirrell than the professor himself did.

After classes on their first day, Harry gave Ron and Hermione a Latin lesson. Hermione enjoyed it thoroughly. Ron suffered through, and took revenge immediately afterwards by explaining, in detail, every Quidditch foul he'd ever heard of. When he'd finished, Hermione forced them to finish all of the homework they'd somehow managed to acquire after only one day of classes. This became something of a tradition that was continued for the rest of the week, without complaint from any of them.

°

**6 September, 1991**

**8:04 AM**

Friday was an important day for Ron and Hermione; Harry had let them find their own way down to the Great Hall for breakfast, and they'd managed to do it without getting lost once. They both beamed at him as they took their seats across the table.

"What have we got today?" Harry needlessly asked Hermione, the most likely of the pair to know.

As she'd memorized their timetable, she answered promptly, "Double Potions with the Slytherins. Professor Snape teaches that class."

"Snape's Head of Slytherin House," said Ron, to explain the sudden grimace on his face. "They say he always favors them -- we'll be able to see if it's true."

"Wish McGonagall favored us," joked Harry, just to see the grin appear on Ron's face as Hermione's lips thinned in disapproval, remarkably like the professor in question. McGonagall was, of course, the Head of Gryffindor House, but it hadn't stopped her from giving them a huge pile of homework the day before, which thanks to Hermione had all been finished before they went to bed.

Just then, the mail arrived. Harry and Hermione had gotten used to this by now, but it had given her a bit of a shock on the first morning, when about a hundred owls had suddenly streamed into the Great Hall during breakfast, circling the tables until they saw their owners, and dropping letters and packages onto their laps.

Hermione had received nothing. Ron had gotten two letters from his younger sister Ginny, who seemed to write letters to all her brothers in some sort of weekly routine that Harry still hadn't figured out, all of which were delivered by an ancient owl that Hermione was terribly afraid would collapse at any moment. Hedwig had only brought Harry one letter so far, ostensibly from his sister Ella, but clearly written by his mother; he'd answered it promptly, putting the names of all three of his sisters on it, and saying nothing very interesting. Hedwig seemed very pleased when he'd given it to her to deliver and, though she didn't usually have anything for him, she sometimes flew in to nibble his ear and have a bit of toast before going off to sleep in the owlery with the other school owls.

This morning, an unfamiliar owl fluttered down between the marmalade and the sugar bowl and dropped a note onto Ron's plate. Ron tore it open at once, and read it aloud. It turned out to be an invitation to tea from the huge man who'd shown them across the lake; it turned out he was the Hogwarts groundskeeper, Rubeus Hagrid, a friend of the Weasleys and a particular favorite of Ron's. Since they had Friday afternoons off anyway, Ron borrowed one of Hermione's quills and scribbled an answer on the back of the letter saying he'd come and mentioning he'd be bringing a couple of friends with him, then sent the owl off again.

It was lucky that they had tea with Hagrid to look forward to, because the Potions lesson turned out to be the most surprising thing that had happened to any of them so far.

At the start-of-term banquet, while waiting for things to wind down so that he could be summoned to the Headmaster's office, Harry had happened to be looking around, and gotten the idea that Professor Snape disliked him -- both the glare on the man's face, and the uneasy feeling in Harry's stomach when he caught sight of the professor contributed to this impression. By the end of the first Potions lesson, he knew he'd been wrong. The greasy-haired man didn't dislike Harry -- he _hated_ him.

Potions lessons took place down in one of the dungeons. It was colder here than up in the main castle, and would have been quite creepy enough without the pickled animals floating in glass jars all around the walls.

Snape, like Flitwick, started the class by taking the roll call, and like Flitwick, he paused at Harry's name.

"Ah, yes," he said softly, and Harry felt ice grow in his veins. "Harry Potter. Our new -- _celebrity_."

Draco Malfoy, the blond Slytherin Harry had noticed during the Sorting Ceremony, and a couple of his friends -- who looked remarkably like boulders -- sniggered behind their hands. Barely sparing them a glance of veiled annoyance, Snape finished calling the names and looked up at the class. His eyes were black like Harry had noticed Hagrid's were, but they had none of the same warmth. They were cold and empty and made you think of dark tunnels. They also, much to Harry's disappointment, made you think of a person who thought almost as quietly as Dumbledore.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," Snape began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word -- like Professor McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort. And like McGonagall, Harry knew exactly what the man was going to say before he said it. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death -- if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

More silence followed this little speech. Harry and Ron exchanged looks with raised eyebrows, while Hermione tried not to fidget or scoot forward to the edge of her seat and look as desperate as she felt to start proving that she wasn't a dunderhead.

"Potter!" said Snape suddenly, and Harry unexpectedly saw a brief image of a young man who looked like his father pointing a threatening wand at a much younger Professor Snape. His insides twisted. Somehow he managed to keep his expression neutral as Snape went on, "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

_Powdered root of what to an infusion of what?_ Harry heard Ron thinking, and glanced over to find the other boy looking stumped; Hermione's hand had shot into the air, and Harry was certain that she also knew the answer, considering she was practically screaming it into his head.

"That would be the Draught of Living Death, sir," Harry answered respectfully, his voice almost as low and level as Snape's had been. The vision of his father threatening Snape was still alive in his mind, behind firmly closed doors, and he hadn't quite decided how to treat the professor yet. "It's a very powerful sleeping potion."

The Professor's face grew a little stonier, and his lips curled into a sneer. "I see."

Hermione lowered her hand, glancing at Harry without even a flicker of surprise on her face; instead she seemed rather resigned. Knowing Snape wasn't finished yet, Harry decided he'd let her answer the next one, if he could.

"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfbane?" demanded Snape.

Harry knew it was a trick question, and he also knew that Hermione knew it; she'd stretched her hand as high into the air as it would go without her leaving her seat.

"I've already answered a question," he said quietly, keeping his tone as inoffensive as he could while giving an unsolicited suggestion to one of his teachers. "Hermione hasn't, though, and I think she knows the answer, so why don't you try her?"

A few people laughed, including Ron; Harry accidentally caught the eye of Seamus, one of his dormmates, and Seamus winked. Snape, however, did not look particularly pleased.

"Tut, tut -- fame clearly isn't everything. Your manners, I see, are as lacking as I suspected.-- I asked _you_, Potter; monkshood and wolfbane, what is the difference? Or do you not know?"

"I know," Harry responded, his face going blank. He thought he could hear Sirius sneering at Snape and calling him something rather unpleasant, though he knew he'd never heard any such thing. "They're the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. Sir."

The professor looked even less pleased than he had a moment ago. Harry forced himself to keep looking straight into those cold eyes, and did not flinch.

"Let's try again." As Snape spoke, Harry had another image flash through his mind of a wand he knew to be his father's leveled at a young Snape's face. "Potter, what is a bezoar, and where would you look if I told you to find me one?"

Before he could think better of it, Harry found himself replying calmly, "Well, a bezoar will save you from most poisons -- and since it's a stone taken from the stomach of a goat, I guess I'd try my father's belly first."

For a moment, there was absolute silence in the classroom. Snape's eyes had widened noticeably, and then narrowed just as sharply. Harry met his gaze, one eyebrow slightly raised. He waited.

"That was inappropriate," murmured Snape, the sudden change in his voice obvious but indecipherable. "Three points from Gryffindor for your cheek, Potter."

Beside him, Harry heard Ron sigh, and saw Hermione send him a rather crestfallen look. The Slytherins, particularly Draco Malfoy, all gave each other smug smiles, but Snape wasn't done.

"Of course, it was also correct," he continued, and everyone in the class frozen again. The forbidding professor lifted one eyebrow, in response to Harry's unspoken challenge. "One point to Gryffindor."

The class gave a collective gasp of surprise, the loudest being Ron's. Draco and a few of the other Slytherins looked about to protest, but Snape's still narrowed eyes were now sweeping the classroom.

"Well? Why aren't you all copying Potter's answers down?" he demanded. There was a pause, and he added somewhat reluctantly, "Minus the bit regarding his father, of course."

There was a sudden rummaging for quills and parchment. Over the noise, Snape started speaking and began their lesson in earnest. He put them all into pairs and set them to mixing up a simple potion to cure boils. He swept around in his long black cloak, watching them weigh dried nettles and crush snake fangs, criticizing almost everyone except Malfoy, whom he almost seemed to like, and Harry, to whom he occasionally _gave advice_ -- judging by the expression on his face as he did this, he was actually testing Harry, though for what none of them was exactly sure.

This continued throughout the rest of the lesson, and everyone who'd had previous expectations of Snape was mightily surprised, and more than a little confused. Draco kept casting Harry speculative looks, and one or two Gryffindors had nearly ruined their potions because they were staring at their housemate with open amazement.

As they climbed the steps out of the dungeon an hour later, Harry's mind was racing and his spirits were conflicted. He'd lost two points for Gryffindor in his very first week -- _why_ did Snape hate him so much? But he'd also been awarded a point, by _Snape_ -- Ron claimed, on information from his brothers, that such a thing hadn't happened in all the years Snape had been teaching. Moreover, it had been the slur on James Potter that had won him the point -- Harry wasn't sure he liked insulting his father, but he did feel sure that it had been the only way to make Snape back off, if even only a little.

"Cheer up," said Hermione, mistaking Harry's thoughtfulness for anxiety over the lost points. "We still get to go meet Hagrid, right, Ron?"

Ron nodded his eager agreement.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Disclaimer:** Please see Chapter Zero.

**Author's Notes:** This is a bit late, but it's a bit longer than I meant it to be, and I've got a head-start on the next chapter, too. D'you think maybe you can forgive me?

For those of you reviewers who had questions and didn't receive a reply answering them, don't worry: it all gets explained. (Eventually?)

Let me just take a minute to say 'WOW!' because this story has generated more response, appreciation and attention (not necessarily good attention, either) than all but one of my other stories. I'm really kind of amazed. It's truly a trippy feeling, haha. So thank you, dearest, loveliest readers. :D You make my day.

Review, please!

**o.o.o.o**

**6 September, 1991**

**2:55 PM**

Five minutes before they were supposed to be at Hagrid's, Harry, Ron and Hermione left the castle and made their way across the grounds. Hagrid lived in a small wooden house on the edge of the forbidden forest. A crossbow and a pair of galoshes were outside the front door.

When Ron knocked they heard a frantic scrabbling from inside and several booming barks. Then Hagrid's voice rang out, saying, "_Back_, Fang -- _back_."

Hagrid's big, hairy face appeared in the crack as he pulled the door open.

"Hang on," he said. "_Back_, Fang."

He let them in, struggling to keep a hold on the collar of an enormous black boar hound.

There was only one room inside. Hams and pheasants were hanging from the ceiling, a copper kettle was boiling on the open fire, and in the corner stood a massive bed with a patchwork quilt over it.

"Make yerselves at home," said Hagrid, letting go of Fang, who bounded straight at Hermione and started licking her ears. Like Hagrid, Fang was clearly not as fierce as he looked.

"This is Hermione," Ron said, hurrying over to help her disentangle herself from the dog. Once she was free, and Fang sitting on the floor getting his ears scratched by both of them, he gestured back at Harry. "And that's Harry."

Hagrid, who was pouring boiling water into a large teapot and putting rock cakes onto a plate, glanced up. He took in Harry's appearance, and then went back to what he was doing. "Harry Potter, eh? Might've known ye'd make friends with him, Ron. Well, sit down, all o ye."

They did. The rock cakes he served them were shapeless lumps with raisins that almost broke their teeth, but Harry and Ron pretended to be enjoying them as they let Hermione tell Hagrid all about their first lessons. Fang rested his head on Ron's knee and drooled all over his robes.

While Hermione frowned in silent disapproval, Harry and Ron were delighted to hear Hagrid call Filch "that old git."

"An' as fer that cat, Mrs. Norris, I'd like ter introduce her to Fang sometime. D'yeh know, every time I go up ter the school, she follows me everywhere? Can't get rid of her -- Filch puts her up to it."

Then, at Hermione's prompting, Harry reluctantly told Hagrid about the beginning of Snape's lesson; he knew, because Hagrid thought loudly, that Hagrid liked James and Lily too much fort it to be a good idea to share _everything_ that happened in that lesson. Hagrid, like Hermione, told Harry not to worry about it, that Snape hardly liked any of the students, just as Ron had thought.

"But he seemed to really _hate_ Harry," said Ron, frowning.

"Rubbish!" said Hagrid, though he looked rather shifty. "Why should he?"

Harry noticed, dispassionately, that Hagrid didn't quite met his eyes when he said that. Hermione, as well, looked rather suspicious, but Ron just smiled. Hagrid started talking again quickly.

"How's yer brother Charlie?" he asked Ron. "I always liked him a lot -- great with animals. He's workin' with dragons, ain't he?"

Harry was sure that Hagrid had changed the subject on purpose. While Ron told Hagrid all about Charlie's work with dragons, Harry picked up a piece of paper that was lying on the table under the tea cozy. It was a cutting from the _Daily Prophet_. He glanced over it and raised his eyebrows, rather amused -- Hermione noticed, and snatched it away from him.

"GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST: Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31 July, widely believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches unknown. Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day," she read aloud, a frown forming on her face. She would have continued with the last paragraph, but she didn't get a chance.

"Hagrid!" Ron cried, who hadn't been listening, interrupting her and glancing at the groundskeeper with very narrowed eyes. "Hagrid, do you usually have abnormally large gnomes with horribly blond hair in your pumpkin patch?"

Everyone immediately turned to look out the window. Sure enough, there was someone lurking outside, some yards away, near Hagrid's pumpkins. It was not, however a gnome.

"That's only Draco Malfoy," Harry replied for Hagrid. He stared a little harder at the other boy, and realized that Malfoy was another annoyingly loud thinker. There were a good many of those, apparently. "He's been following us since we left Potions."

Hermione and Ron both stared at him, shocked. "Has he?" demanded Hermione, concerned that she hadn't noticed it.

"Wonder why the bugger would do that," Ron muttered, his voice laced with contempt.

"Let's go find out, shall we?" suggest Harry evenly, standing up. He knew Ron and Hermione would take his lead, so he didn't worry about not being followed. He turned to Hagrid, smiling honestly and saying, "It was nice meeting you, Hagrid."

Hagrid smiled as well. "Aye. Tell yer da' I say hullo," he said, clapping Harry on the shoulder. Harry's smile dropped abruptly, but none of them noticed.

Ron and Hermione said their farewells to Hagrid, much warmer on Ron's part than anyone else's, and they trooped out of the hut. The other two expected Harry to march them right over to where Malfoy was lurking, but to their surprise he simply led them toward the castle.

"Aren't we going to see what Malfoy wanted?" Ron hissed, looking aggrieved.

"Yes," Harry replied shortly, not pausing at all.

Hermione looked puzzled. "But how--"

"You'll see," Harry instructed, and kept right on walking.

Sure enough, as soon as they were out of sight of Hagrid's, Malfoy could be heard calling awkwardly for them to wait. Harry and the others turned, to see Malfoy hurrying to catch them up. He looked flushed and uncertain.

"What do you want?" snapped Ron tactlessly, before Malfoy had even reached them.

Malfoy looked down his nose at the redhead. "Certainly not to talk to _you_, Weasley." He faltered under the glare he was receiving from both Ron and Hermione, but Harry's level gaze spurred him to continue, "I wanted a word with... Harry."

"Well he doesn't--" began Ron, heatedly, taking a step forward. Harry's hand on his arm stopped him, and he turned to his friend, looking confused.

"Now's not a good time," Harry replied pleasantly, his expression unchanged. "My friends and I were on our way back up to the castle, as you can see."

"Oh." Malfoy's face fell, but quickly he composed himself and looked as haughty as he had the first time Harry had seen him. He lifted his lips in a halfhearted sneer and finished, "Oh, I see. Think you're too good for me, do you? Well you--"

"Not at all," Harry interrupted him. He made sure to keep his voice pleasant, because he'd heard what the boy was thinking. "You can walk up with us, if you like."

Harry was abruptly hit with two separate, distinct waves of panicked shock from both of the other boys. Hermione was simply confused, so he dismissed that as not worth worrying about at the moment. "Or," he said quickly, realizing that Malfoy was about to reject the offer with nerve-induced cruelty, "you could just try again some other time."

Malfoy was so obviously relieved that he forgot he wasn't supposed to be nice. "Yes, that'll work. Thanks."

"You're welcome," said Harry, intrigued by the thoughts he was picking up from the other boy.

"Well, ah-- Bye, Harry."

Harry nodded politely. "See you, Draco." He made sure to emphasis the first name just slightly, to show he was willing to be civil. Looking relieved, Draco hurried away from them.

"What the hell was that about?" demanded Ron, looking incensed. "Don't you know _anything_ about him?"

"Of course I do. His father, Lucius Malfoy, is never pleased with anything he does and he gets punished more often than he deserves. His mother, Narcissa, loves him but treats him more like a pet than a son and refuses to stand up to his father on his behalf. His friends are all selected by his parents and he doesn't really like any of them." Harry raised his eyebrows at his friend. "Don't you know anything about him?"

Ron's angry glare had dissolved into a mask of amazement. "What-- how do you know all that?"

"It's a long story," lied Harry, who hadn't done anything more interesting than pick the information out of Draco's head. "We really had better get back up to the castle, it'll be dark soon."

"Yes," agreed Hermione, who'd been silent through both exchanges. She was looking at Harry with a slightly worried frown; Harry realized it meant she was still confused. "We should hurry."

He smiled at his friends and lead the way.

°

**9 September, 1991**

**9:01 AM**

Harry had never believed that he would meet a person he found more intriguing than Sirius's mysterious 'Spanish' friend, but that was before he met Draco Malfoy; the boy was equal parts fear, malice, sympathy and cruelty. Unfortunately, first-year Gryffindors only had Potions with the Slytherins, so he didn't have chances to study Draco much. Or at least, he didn't until the Gryffindor first-years spotted a notice pinned up in their common room that made almost all of them groan. Flying lessons would be starting on Thursday, the 12th -- and Gryffindors and Slytherins would be learning together.

"Typical," said Ron darkly when he saw it. "Just what I always wanted. To make a fool of myself on a broomstick in front of Malfoy."

Harry chuckled quietly.

"You don't know that you'll make a fool or yourself," said Hermione, trying to be reasonable even though she was horribly nervous. "Anyway, I know Malfoy's always going on about how good he is at Quidditch, but you've said yourself that's probably all talk."

"Trust me," muttered Ron peevishly, "if Malfoy's there, I'll make a fool of myself."

"No, you won't," Harry assured him, calmly turning another page in his Romanian textbook. "You've been flying since you could walk, remember."

"Yes, I..." Ron trailed off, looking bemused, and spent the entirety of their walk down to breakfast trying to remember just when he'd told Harry that. Eventually he gave up -- all of the other boys from wizarding families talked about Quidditch constantly, so it was safe to assume that he did as well -- but he'd been distracted long enough that he forgot to worry more about Malfoy, which was what Harry had intended to happen all along.

°

**12 September, 1991**

**8:57 AM**

Thursday morning was bright and warm, promising to be a clear, breezy day, which though perhaps not ideal for flying lessons, was perfect for most other outdoor activities. Hermione said as much to the boys on their way to breakfast, and Ron expanded on the observation by wistfully telling them all about what he expected his sister was up to that morning back home -- starting with still being asleep and ending with a giant wooden swing on a tree behind their house.

Ron was in the middle of his oration about the delights of the Burrow when they got to the Great Hall, and only finished with the arrival of the mail, which brought with it his fourth letter from Ginny. Eager now to hear of home, he tore into it and was lost to the world for several minutes. Hermione, again letter-less, leaned over his shoulder to read it with him; he absently held it to one side and leaned away to give her more room, so that she could see it better.

Harry watched this only out of the corner of his eye. He'd received another letter from his sister Ella, and was therefore absorbed in staring at his mother's handwriting. Letters from his sister -- of which he'd had three so far -- were not one of his favorite pastimes, as they not only reminded him of his parents, but also that he hadn't yet received a single word from Sirius. Nor even Remus!

Disgusted with himself and his godfather, Harry threw down the parchment covered in sparkling purple ink and looked around the table at all the other Gryffindors cheerfully devouring their post. Something on the other side of Ron and Hermione caught his attention.

It was Neville Longbottom, who usually sat near them during meals and classes. Harry tried to include him when he could.

A barn owl had brought Neville a small package from his grandmother; the amused tone of the other boy's thoughts were what had drawn Harry's interest. "What is it?" he asked, letting his curiosity be obvious.

"Dunno yet, do I?" Neville responded. He opened the package and revealed a glass ball the size of a large marble, which seemed to be full of white smoke.

"It's a Remembrall!" he exclaimed for Harry's benefit, seeming to be rather exasperated now. "Gran knows I forget things -- this tells you if there's something you've forgotten to do. Look, you hold it tight like this and if it turns red -- oh..." His face fell a little, because the Remembrall had suddenly glowed scarlet, but then he laughed. "... you've forgotten something... see?"

Neville was making a show of trying to remember what he'd forgotten when Draco Malfoy, who was passing the Gryffindor table under the watchful eye of several older Slytherins, snatched the Remembrall out of his hand.

Ron jumped to his feet, half hoping for a reason to fight, and Harry surged up behind him, determined to prevent any such thing. But Professor McGonagall, who could spot trouble quicker than any teacher in the school, was there in a flash.

"What's going on?"

"Malfoy's got my Remembrall, Professor," Neville answered, still smiling a little. The Professor turned to the Slytherin with pursed lips and raised eyebrows.

Scowling, Draco made to drop the Remembrall back on the table. Before he did so, Harry interposed calmly -- but quietly, so the other Slytherins, the seventh-years watching Draco, couldn't hear him -- "Draco was only looking, Professor."

Draco's hand frozen, his fingers about to release the Remembrall, as he stared at Harry, petrified. Harry didn't look at him, instead watching the flash of surprise in McGonagall's eyes.

Interesting.

"I see," she murmured, glancing once more at the Slytherin. "Mr. Malfoy?"

"Like he said, just looking," muttered Draco, almost petulantly. Instead of letting the Remembrall fall to the table, he tossed it somewhat forcefully at Neville, who caught it clumsily.

Before any of them could say anything else, Draco sloped away, the hulking monsters Crabbe and Goyle soon appearing to fall in behind him. Harry was rather struck by how much they could be considered guards -- and not necessarily in the manner the rest of the students undoubtedly presumed.

_Very_ interesting.

"Neville," began Hermione thoughtfully, interrupting Harry's musings, "doesn't it bother you?"

"Doesn't what bother me?" asked Neville, who was holding his restored Remembrall up to the light of a nearby window and watching the sunbeams dance through the mist in its depths.

Hermione pointed, somewhat awkwardly, at the object he held. "That your gran thinks you need one of those."

The question startled Neville; he fumbled, and the Remembrall slipped through his fingers, hitting the table with a sharp ping. "Oh. Well, I'm _always_ forgetting something or other," he explained, with a good-natured shrug, picking the Remembrall up again and putting it in his pocket, "so it's no use worrying about it, is it?"

Hermione stared at him, a tiny frown line forming between her eyebrows, and didn't reply. Tired of listening to her think, Harry shoved a plate of kippers toward her and reminded his friends to hurry and finish breakfast, else they'd be late for class.

°

**12 September, 1991**

**3:31 PM**

When the appointed time for their first flying lesson rolled around, Harry, Ron and Hermione found themselves waiting among a crowd of Slytherins, as the other Gryffindors were a bit late. This might have been a problem, if Draco Malfoy -- the apparent ringleader of the Slytherin first-years -- hadn't been studiously pretending to ignore them; though rather surprised, the other Slytherins were following his lead.

While Ron and Hermione talked to each other in hushed tones and tried not to appear anxious, Harry surveyed the area that had been selected for the lesson. It was a smooth, flat lawn on the opposite side of the grounds to the forbidden forest, whose trees were swaying darkly in the distance.

Also there, in addition to the Slytherins, were about twenty brooms, lying in neat lines on the ground. Harry had heard Fred and George Weasley complain about the school brooms, saying that some of them started to vibrate if you flew too high, or always flew slightly to the left. He glanced around at the selection again and picked out the best one, making a note of its location.

Then the other Gryffindors showed up, a flurry of nervous, excited chatter descending on the solemn Slytherins and the uncomfortable Ron and Hermione. Harry looked up and allowed himself a smile.

Their teacher, Madam Hooch, arrived. She had short, gray hair and yellow eyes like a hawk; Harry felt them burn into his briefly, before they darted away to take note of what everyone else was doing. Harry wasn't sure whether he liked her or not, but respect had sprung to the front of his mind the moment he saw her.

"Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked, startling them. "Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up."

Harry moved immediately to the broom he'd staked out earlier, the best of the lot. He found that Ron was on his right, followed by Hermione, with Neville on his left. Draco was in front of him, flanked by the hulking behemoths he had for cronies. Draco glanced backwards at the same time Harry looked forward. Their eyes met, and Harry gave a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgment which Draco returned, but neither boy smiled.

"Stick out your right hand over your broom," called Madam Hooch at the front, "and say 'UP!'"

"UP!" everyone shouted. (Except Harry, who didn't bother to; he'd quirked one eyebrow at his broom and it had flown eagerly into his hand with no further prompting at all.) Ron and Draco's brooms jumped into their hands at once, but theirs were two of the few that did. Hermione's had risen part of the way before falling back down, and Neville's had simply rolled over on the ground.

Madam Hooch then showed them how to mount their brooms without sliding off the end, and walked up and down the rows correcting their grips. Ron was delighted when she told Draco he'd been doing it wrong for years; but Harry heard the fear in the Slytherin's mental voice and internally winced with sympathy for him.

"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," said Madam Hooch. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle -- three -- two --"

But Neville and Hermione, nervous and jumpy and frightened of being left on the ground, pushed off hard before the whistle had touched Madam Hooch's lips.

"Come back!" she shouted at them, but they'd already climbed several feet before they realized they'd preempted her command. Then, when they were at least twelve feet in the air, they both tried to swerve, unsure of how to return to the ground. Unfortunately, they swerved toward each other. They were still rising -- twenty feet up, at least -- when they collided. There was a loud crash, followed by a gasp of horror from those watching below. They lost their grip on their brooms, fell away backwards from each other and --

WHAM -- a thud and a nasty crack and Neville lay face-down on the grass in a heap; his broomstick was still rising higher and higher, and started to drift lazily toward the forbidden forest and out of sight. Close to him was Hermione, who'd managed to grab hold of her broom again at the last moment, slowing but not stopping her descent as the broom was pointed at the ground; she lay on her back, clutching the broomstick to her chest and staring straight up at the blue sky, looking frightened.

Madam Hooch rushed forward and bent over Neville, her face as white as his turned out to be when she rolled him over. "Broken wrist," Harry heard her mutter. "Come on, boy -- it's all right, up you get."

Ron had hurried over to Hermione, and was relieved to discover that she suffered nothing more than a few bruises. He made sure Madam Hooch knew this, and then she turned to the rest of the class. "None of you is to move while I take these two up to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch.' Come on, dears -- you, redhead, help the girl."

Neville, his face ashy, clutching his wrist, hobbled off with Madam Hooch, who had her arm around him. Hermione followed them, Ron fluttering around her anxiously. (They both seemed to have forgotten Harry, but he didn't particularly mind.)

No sooner were they out of earshot than Draco burst into forced laughter -- disturbingly convincing, unless you could read his mind, but definitely forced. "Did you see his face, the great lump?"

The other Slytherins joined in, not having to feign their amusement.

"Shut up, Malfoy," snapped Parvati Patil.

"Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" said Pansy Parkinson, a hard-faced Slytherin girl. "Never thought _you'd_ like fat little scardy-cats, Parvati."

"Look!" said Draco, darting forward and snatching something out of the grass. "It's that stupid thing Longbottom's gran sent him."

The Remembrall glittered in the sun as he held it up.

"Give that here, Malfoy," said Harry quietly, thinking it was about time he reminded them of his presence. Everyone stopped talking to watch.

An idea flashed through Draco's mind, and he smiled-- slyly, then turning it quickly nasty.

"I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find -- how about -- up a tree?"

"Give it _here_," Harry insisted quietly, for the sake of appearances, but Draco had already leapt onto his broomstick and taken off. He hadn't been lying, he _could_ fly well. Hovering level with the topmost branches of an oak he called, "Come and get it, Potter!"

Harry had grabbed his broom almost before the other boy had even left the ground.

With Hermione and Ron both off up in the hospital wing, there was no-one around who'd bother trying to stop him. Blood was pounding in his ears excitedly. He mounted the broom and kicked hard against the ground and up, up he soared; air rushed through his hair, and his robes whipped out behind him -- and with a fierce surge of joy, he remembered how it felt to do something you loved, to fly -- this was easy, this was _wonderful_. He pulled his broomstick up a little to take it even higher, and heard screams and gasps of girls back on the ground and an admiring whoop from someone, possibly Seamus.

Then, though he meant to chase directly after Draco, he couldn't help himself. He pulled even harder on the handle of his broom and flew straight up like a cork shot out of a bottle, feeling the world fall away beneath him. When he was more than seventy feet in the air, he pushed forward, pointed his broomstick at the ground. When he was level with Draco he pulled up again, brought himself to a smooth halt, and turned his broomstick sharply to face Draco in midair. Draco looked stunned, and his thoughts were echoing numbly with amazement.

"Give it here, Malfoy," Harry called, loudly enough to be heard by those still clustered on the ground. For a moment, Draco looked worried. Harry lowered his voice and added, "Please, Draco."

"I don't think I want to," retorted Draco, his face smoothing out. He knew what they were up to now. Then, his voice lowered as well, his lips barely moving, "I can't just give it back, you know."

"Yes, but that's all right," replied Harry, quietly. He raised his voice. "Give it here, or I'll knock you off that broom."

"Oh, yeah?" demanded Draco, managing a real sneer because he didn't really think Harry would knock him off. A part of him, though, was still worried.

Harry knew exactly what to do. He leaned forward and grasped the broom tightly in both hands, and it shot toward Draco like a javelin. To those on the ground it looked as if Draco only just got out of the way in time, but really Harry hadn't even been aiming at him, rather just next to him; he made a sharp about-face and held the broom steady. A few people below were clapping, but Harry wasn't concerned about that.

"No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, Malfoy," Harry called, one corner of his mouth lifted wryly.

Draco pretended that the same thought had just struck him.

"Catch it if you can, then!" he shouted, and he threw the glass ball high into the air and streaked back toward the ground.

Harry saw, as though in slow motion, the ball rise up in the air and then start to fall. He leaned forward and pointed his broom handle down, as he had before -- next second he was gathering speed in a steep dive, steeper even than his last one, racing the ball -- wind whistled in his ears, mingled with the screams of people watching -- he stretched out his hand -- less than a foot from the ground he caught it, just in time to pull his broom up and shoot back toward the sky with the Remembrall clutched safely in his fist. He grinned; a much better showing than when he'd last done this, indeed.

"HARRY POTTER!"

Harry's heart skipped a beat, but only one. He turned back to the ground; Professor McGonagall was running toward him. He drifted down and got off the broom.

"_Never_ -- in all my time at Hogwarts --"

Professor McGonagall was almost speechless with shock, and her glasses flashed furiously, "-- how _dare_ you -- might have broken your neck --"

"No, I wouldn't have," interrupted Harry firmly, staring directly up into her eyes. Professor McGonagall's mouth opened and her jaw worked but no sound came out.

"It wasn't his fault, Professor --"

Recovering herself, McGonagall snapped, "Be quiet, Miss Patil --"

"But Malfoy --"

"That's _enough_, Mr. Thomas. Potter, follow me, now."

Harry caught sight of Draco, Crabbe and Goyle's triumphant faces as he left, walking calmly in Professor McGonagall's wake as she strode toward the castle. (Draco's carefully hidden, anxious worry followed him, but Harry could have told him it wasn't necessary.) He wondered if he could manage to get them to expel him for this -- maybe then he could go back to the continent and he and Sirius could -- but, no, it wasn't Sirius he'd be going to, it was his parents, and his sisters. Better to stay here, where he had work to do anyway.

Professor McGonagall was sweeping along without even looking at him; he practically had to jog to keep up. Up the front steps, up the marble staircase inside, and still she didn't say a word to him. She wrenched open doors and marched along corridors with Harry trotting curiously behind her. Maybe she was taking him to Dumbledore, which would be interesting -- though what Dumbledore would do about this, he wouldn't venture a guess -- things would be much easier if Professor McGonagall thought above a hushed, jumbled whisper.

Harry was just preparing to nudge the volume up on Professor McGonagall's thoughts when she stopped outside a classroom. She opened the door and poked her head inside.

"Excuse me, Professor Flitwick, could I borrow Wood for a moment?"

_Wood?_ thought Harry, his eyebrows lifting to the fringe of his bangs. Did she mean who he thought she meant?

Wood was a person, a burly fifth-year boy who came out of Flitwick's class looking confused. He didn't so much as look at Harry, which the other boy was grateful for -- he was busy getting over his mild surprise.

"Follow me, you two," said Professor McGonagall, and they marched up the corridor, Wood looking curiously at her back.

"In here."

Professor McGonagall pointed them into a classroom that was empty except for Peeves, who was busy writing rude words on the blackboard.

"Out, Peeves!" she barked. Peeves threw the chalk into a bin, which clanged loudly, and he swooped out cursing. Professor McGonagall slammed the door behind him and turned to face the two boys. "Potter--"

Harry cut her off, saying, "Oliver!"

Wood looked to Harry finally, and did a double take. "Harry?" he exclaimed, astonished.

Professor McGonagall's lips thinned. "You know each other, then?"

"We've met. Oliver spent part of his summer holidays in Italy last year," replied Harry.

"But--" sputtered Wood, his eyes very wide. He had started staring at Harry's forehead. "But, I thought you were a Muggle! And where'd you get that... scar..."

"From Vol--" Harry began to answer, but Professor McGonagall interrupted him.

"Really, Potter, that's hardly nimportant at the moment. Since you know each other already, well... Wood -- I've found you a Seeker."

If it had been possible, Wood's eyes would have grown even wider as his expression changed from puzzlement to delight. "Are you serious, Professor?"

"Absolutely," said Professor McGonagall crisply. "The boy's a natural. I've never seen anything like it. Was that your first time on a broomstick, Potter?"

Harry nodded. "In a manner of speaking."

"What?"

"Uh, yes, it was."

"Hm. He caught that thing in his hand after a fifty-foot dive," Professor McGonagall told Wood, pointing to the Remembrall still clutched in Harry's fist. "Didn't touch the ground, didn't even scratch himself. Charlie Weasley couldn't have done it."

Wood was now looking as though all his dreams had come true at once.

"Ever seen a game of Quidditch, Harry?" he asked excitedly.

"No," replied Harry, adding _Not technically_, to himself.

"Wood's captain of the Gryffindor team," Professor McGonagall explained.

"He's just the build for a Seeker, too," said Wood, now walking around Harry and staring at him. "I'd always thought so. Light -- speedy -- we'll have to get him a decent broom, Professor -- a Nimbus Two Thousand or a Cleansweep Seven, I'd say."

"I shall speak to Professor Dumbledore and see if we can't bend the first-year rule. If he agrees, I'll talk to Potter's parents and see what they wish to do; his father should be delighted, he's the head of the Department of Games and Sports at the Ministry," said Professor McGonagall thoughtfully. "I hope they don't object to buying him a broom. Heaven knows, we need a better team than last year. _Flattened_ in that last match by Slytherin, I couldn't look Severus Snape in the face for weeks..."

"Wait," exclaimed Wood, looking astonished again, "James Potter is his father -- he's _that_ Harry Potter?"

Professor McGonagall nodded sharply once, and peered sternly over her glasses at Harry. "I want to hear you're training hard, Potter, or I may change my mind about punishing you."

Harry was about to make a smart remark, when she suddenly smiled.

"Your father will be so proud," she said. "He was an excellent Quidditch player himself, while he was here."

Harry's face went blank.


End file.
